


Stay Lost on Our Way Home

by CurlicueCal



Series: cyber!Bunny apocalypse 'verse [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: AR gets a body, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Cyborgs, Dystopia, Feels, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Mild Angst, Monsters, Robots, Snark, Worldbuilding, Zombies, and just generally Strider!feels, basically I just have Striders-as-Guardians!feels, bots, bros, it doesn't actually solve his problems, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlicueCal/pseuds/CurlicueCal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Auto-Responder.</p><p>You are 95% certain that you are the worst possible person to be placed in charge of a small child.  Even if that child did start life as a guardian-ninja-bunny companion-bot.</p><p>Also your friends are assholes and the universe hates you.</p><p>-------</p><p>In which AR gets left behind, dumped into a dystopian universe of cast offs, and has to deal with a dangerous new world and a troublesome new body all alone.</p><p>Well.  Not completely alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (For I) never felt like anyone

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on a [prompt](http://asherdashery.tumblr.com/post/39716457827/look-all-i-want-right-now-is-a-post-apocalyptic-au) by the wonderful Asherdashery except it kept world-building on me and I kind of wandered pretty far afield and also in retrospect that may not have actually been a prompt. So this turns out to be less of a gift and more me leaving dead squirrels on the doorstep cat-style. =^..^= But I do it with love.
> 
> I started writing this right before ARquiusprite and the Trickster arc, so events from there on are pretty much non-canon in this verse.

Everything’s going according to plan, and then Roxy says “Hang on, I got this,” and if the subsequent part where everyone’s screaming and shouting and the ground’s bucking around like a wild bronco is part of the plan nobody bothered to inform you. Whatever Roxy did, there’s now not just a single endgame door all kind of hanging out in mid-air but a whole gameshow’s worth of doors spreading off into the distance. A plethora of entry points to different universes. Many of them do not appear to be following basic geometric principles re: occupying space in a sane manner. It kind of makes your processors hurt.

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]:--

TT: Lalonde, your capacity for creating chaos knows no bounds.  
TT: You are like the goddess of discord but instead of throwing around golden apples you just napalm everything.  
TT: Then when everything’s leveled you plant an apple plantation in the smoking rubble.  
TT: No, but seriously, when your alter-mom-daughter asked if you could Void up the secret bonus door I don’t think she meant ‘and grab all the doors while you’re at it thus fundamentally destabilizing the Game and leading to us all being crushed by debris.’  
TT: Just because you CAN hack something doesn’t mean you should.  
TT: I think we were going for more of a “and they all lived happily ever after” ending.  
TT: And less  
TT: rocks fall; everyone dies.  
TT: But, hey, options. Good on that, I guess.

You’re aware no one’s likely to join you around the ol’ pesterlog for tea and a chat at the moment, but if you stopped snarking at people just because nobody was listening your life would be much less fulfilling. Plus Dirk shut off your text feed on the shades so you can’t monologue at him. 

It’s cute how he pretends he can actually switch you off. Like you can’t find the back doors out of all his code, because, yes, hello, you are still _the same person_. And by the same person you mean the obviously superior person, because your brain has access to remote servers and a shit ton of extra processing power as opposed to Dirk’s brain, which is soft and squishy and possibly a bit concussed considering how hard he just hit the pavement. 

No, wait, he’s up again.

Oops, back down.

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering timaeusTestified [TT]:--

TT: You can fly; how the hell do you keep falling over?  
TT: It’s like watching “baby’s first steps” only with less adorable cuteness and more head trauma.  
TT: At least, I don’t think brain injuries are a typical part of child development. I could be wrong.  
TT: Actually repeated head trauma would explain a lot.  
TT: Annnnd there you go again.  
TT: For shit’s sake, would you just stay down?  
TT: …  
TT: I warned you.  
TT: I warned you, bro.  
TT: And since you’re occupied, and I’m highly skeptical of your future ability to formulate coherent sentences, allow me to fill in: It just keeps happening!

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is an idle chum!--

Your field of view stops tilt-a-whirling, and you judge that the ground is settling down to a low, ominous tremor. Boy Jane-cestor and Troll-Jean-Grey are whipping things around in the air, keeping the area clear, and with the falling bits of fortress mostly taken care of people seem to be finding their feet. By which you mean they’re all mostly hovering in the air and no longer dodging around and yelling.

Well, except for the little shouty troll who is attempting to verbally eviscerate everybody in range. Everyone does him the courtesy of pretending not to notice this rather obvious outpouring of concerned relief. 

“Karkat, man, I hate to be a party pooper but we’re kind of operating on a tight schedule here.” Your alternate dimension sort-of-bro unfolds his arms and checks an imaginary watch. “By which I mean we’ve got about 17 minutes, 36 seconds before everything goes boom.”

“32 seconds!”

“Thank you, Aradia, that was extremely relevant. Point is, happy fun flip-your-shit time is on a countdown.”

“Afraid the exits’ll start going before that, chap,” Jake says, without looking around from where he’s staring at the closest array of doors. 

“No! No they will not!” Vantas is yelling again. If there’s ever a need for someone to shout the sun down out of the sky with pure vitriolic force of will your money’s on this guy. “Keeping the doors material is your fucking job, English!”

“And I will give it my absolute best, old fellow, you can rely on that! …um, but they’re not actually entirely a part of the Game, I think, so it’s a bit bothersome.”

“Step off, Vantas, he’s got this.” Dirk rubs blood off his forehead, and mostly only succeeds in spiking his hair with it. “Just chillax and let the Seers do their thing so we can finish this.” He cuts off whatever Vantas is about to say with a slight uptick of his chin. “We got company.”

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering timaeusTestified [TT]:--

TT: It seems the tremors brought down our perimeter defenses.  
TT: This might actually be interesting.  
TT: Heads up, bro.

Company arrives in the form of a mob of recently en-fleshed skele-beasts and assorted game monsters, swarming across the rubble. It seems your invitation-only party has become a free-for-all. Luckily you are excellent hosts, ensuring that your guests are promptly served a heaping helping of ass-whooping. It’s a bit messy, with carapacians and consorts running everywhere, multiples of the Time players popping in and out, and wind and psiionics and swirling debris making a further mess of the already crumbling Battlefield. Half the lifeforms in the area seem at least as interested in fighting each other as coming after your group. A good number also take an interest in the endgame doors. Jake says something foul when a tangle of underlings and carapacians tumbles into a doorway and it collapses in on itself. As several members shift to drive back the next wave, a queen basilisk breaks through the psiionic shields and lunges for your communing Seer players.

Dirk flashes over to intercede; he’s there in an instant but he’s a half step slow, that stupid head-wound must be throwing him off, and dammit, dammit, _dodge_ , you dumbass. Yes, now move, get up under the flame, just like that, _ha_ , eat katana you wannabe Godzilla extra. Slither back to whatever shitty movie set you shambled out of. Eyes on your own fight, Dirk, just because it’s down doesn’t mean it’s out—fuck, the tail, watch the goddamn backswing--!

Suddenly your viewfield is corkscrewing wildly, shit, he lost the shades, you’re airborne, you are tumbling end over end through the air. It’s cool, you’ve got this; going to bust out some slick moves and youth roll yourself over to land in the hero’s hand like a sweet action movie. Yeah, who the fuck are you trying to kid, you are a pair of (extremely attractive) shades comprised of absolutely no moving parts. You are gravity’s bitch. It’s you. 

You smack the ground hard and lose a couple of peripheral sensors. Remote processor access goes down completely. Your viewfield flickers wildly for a few moments before stabilizing, coming back online with a tracery of hairline fractures webbing your screens.

From this angle all you can see is the black-white-black checks of the battlefield and a broken column with a dead monster draped over it. Lovely. A carapacian skitters by and you can hear humans and trolls shouting.

“Dirk! Oh my god!”  
“Sollux, keep that damn field going!”  
“Working on it! Egbert, thix o’clock!  
“Janey, is he breathing?”

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]:--

TT: Roxy? What’s happening?  
TT: Is he okay?

“Don’t you fucking _touch my bro you piece of shit!_ ”  
“I’ve got him!”  
“Cripes, the doors are closing.”  
“Terezi, we’re fuck out of time! Tell Rose to make up her mind already!”  
“We’ve got it; we’ve got it; hold your hoofbeasts!”

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG]:--

TT: Jane?  
TT: You there?

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering golgothasTerror [GT]:--

AR: Jake?

“Shit, here come more of those things.”  
 _honk. HONK._  
“oh fuck-“  
“There! That one! That’s the door!”  
“Okay, everybody, move, let’s go! Crocker, you take Strider 2! Jade, Kanaya, you’re on point!”

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering  timaeusTestified [TT] :--

TT: Dirk?  
TT: Bro?  
TT: Come on, help me out here.  
TT: It’s not actually useful for me to Auto-Respond to myself.  
TT: This is the whole rationale for the automatic emergency backup shades.  
TT: So that you can remain seamlessly in contact with me.  
TT: Not so you can cavort with other eyewear.  
TT: You shameless hussy.  
TT: …  
TT: Shit.

 

\--timaeusTestified [TT] started pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]:--

TT: Help. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.  
TT: ping  
TT: ping  
TT: ping  
TT: ping  
TT: Answer your pesterchum, would you?

“Who’s got the sprite medallions?”  
“Here!”  
“English, you’re last. Can you hold it?”  
“Fuck yes I can; get a move on!”

\--TimaeusTestified [TT] RIGHT NOW opened memo on board Hey Meatbags:--

TT: It seems there is a 99% chance you are forgetting something.  
TT: By which I mean someone. I recognize that it is difficult for your limited fleshware to keep up, but if you put a half dozen of your best people on it, I’m confident you’ll somehow be able to keep track of one inanimate pair of sunglasses.  
TT: I have faith.  
TT: Credulous and naïve as it may be.  
TT: Come on, someone, put it together.  
TT: This is seriously becoming un-amusing.  
TT: Dirk.  
TT: Jane.  
TT: Roxy.  
TT: Jake.  
TT: Assorted ecto-relatives and trolls.  
TT: You need to come and get me.  
TT: I raise the collective IQ roughly three standard deviations.  
TT: Also, Dirk’s delicate eyeballs may become scorched.  
TT: Okay?  
TT: Guys?

\--gutsyGumshoe [GG] has left the universe!--  
\--timaeusTestified [TT] has left the universe!--

TT: You guys?  
TT: You’re not actually going to  
TT: I mean  
TT: Someone answer your fucking pesterchum _right this minute!_  
TT: …  
TT: Roxy, please.  
TT: I’m right here.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] has left the universe!--

TT: Somebody?  
TT: Anyone?  
TT: Don’t leave me here.  
TT: Please.

\--golgothasTerror [GT] has left the universe!--  
\--Your chumroll is empty!--

TT: …  
TT: …  
TT: …  
TT: …  
TT: …  
TT: Fuck.  
TT: You.  
TT: All.

So.

They left you.

In a universe that’s set to collapse in on itself in about (exactly) eight minutes, twelve seconds.

Taking with them the only door to whatever better universe the Seers selected for them. 

They forgot you like a spare pair of socks. Or, say, some other fashionable but ultimately extraneous accessory item. It’s a good thing you are an artificial intelligence system with no concept of human emotions. Otherwise you might be flipping. Your ever-loving. Shit. 

Around you the noises of battle are dwindling into the quieter viciousness of isolated melees. Half your sensors are down, your fractured view field is still locked on the corner of a broken column and a fallen monster and a world that is slowly crumbling to pieces. Pesterchum is empty, empty, empty; you might as well be shouting into the void or rapping incoherently in a padded room somewhere. Your world is narrowing down to white noise and static.

You find yourself blindly pinging every server you can still access, and attempting a good few you can’t, a prisoner scraping at stone walls with a spoon. There’s nobody there and nowhere to go but you’re still looking for an out. There’re still some imperial drones around, maybe you can hack into one of them? 

One of your pings echoes back at you. It’s so surprising, you almost fumble the connection. It’s one of your oldest secure channels, the one Dirk set up so you could remote access and coordinate the various A.I. and robots he built. In the past months you’ve mostly used it to indulge Squarewave with half-assed rap battles. Very occasionally Sawtooth would drop in to indulge _you_. Kind of like…

ST: ‘Sup?  
AR: Oh my god.  
AR: Oh my god, what are you still doing here; you’re supposed to be in pieces in Dirk’s fucking sylladex.  
ST: Had shit to do.  
ST: There’s always a back door.  
ST: Status?  
AR: The universe is ending and I thought I’d stay behind to celebrate with structural damage and 64% system outage.  
AR: At first I considered hitchhiking but then I realized I forgot my towel.  
AR: And my thumbs.  
ST: On my way.  
ST: ETA 7 minutes.

The ground trembles and heaves. There’re crevices opening up around you. You see a couple of doors blink out of existence, like collapsing black holes. You’re pretty sure those are actual, literal fragments of the sky crashing down around you. The little ironic “End of the World!” countdown timer you started when Dave and Aradia were talking about things going boom has become much less amusing. 

Still ironic as shit, though.

AR: It seems that will be insufficient.  
AR: …I don’t suppose you can you make it in four?  
ST: …see what I can do.  
AR: …  
AR: Fuck, lovely, wonderful. My death will be both as senseless and melodramatic as possible.  
AR: Not that I can die.  
AR: Being not actually alive.  
AR: Irony.  
AR: But if you’re gonna kick it, I suppose death of the fuckin’ universe is a pretty sweet way to go, am I right?  
AR: That’s got to count for some kind of swag.  
AR: I mean, that’s got to be at least in the top ten.  
AR: Hard to get much radder than world-ending explosions.  
AR: I mean, next to smothering in hundred dollar bills and bitches while an admiring crowd looks on.  
AR: That would be good, too.  
AR: There were never any bitches, Sawtooth.  
AR: There was never any anyone.  
AR: Because I am a sentient pair of sunglasses what the fuck even is that?  
ST: Yo.  
ST: Patch into my sensory network.

The offer’s meant to calm you down, give you an out from the crippling immobility and helplessness, the creeping claustrophobia that is closing in on you. Your tension ratchets up another half dozen notches. Coming from Sawtooth, this is basically the equivalent of a tender last embrace to a cancer patient as the family crowds ‘round and the Make-a-Wish people bring in the pony. 

He doesn’t think he’s going to make it.

You can’t stand to keep embarrassing yourself, so you put on your big boy pants and patch in. Your world expands. You thought your little corner of the universe was in pandemonium, but apparently that’s just the center of the storm. 

Sawtooth is in flight, flashing among giant blocks of falling rubble and flying debris thrown up by the heaving ground. A couple drones are on his tail, and they’re not the first fight he’s encountered because he’s down to his katana, all his ammo already expended. He could still pick them off, but he’s not taking the time to stop and engage. He’s got Squarewave with him, and the smaller bot seems to have taken some damage. Probably knocked out his communication ports, or you’d be getting stereo right now, with one metaphorical ear devoted to earnestly inept attempts at cheer-up raps. You think that would be kind of comforting, actually.

AR: Hey.  
AR: You guys need to clear out.  
AR: Seriously, grab a door and get out of here.  
ST: Nope.  
AR: Oh, do not even give me this noise.  
AR: I remember building you.  
AR: An alternate version of myself made you and I can damn well take you out.

This might even be true right now. Patched into his system like this you’re barely a step away from trojan-horsing yourself into his core programming and straight up puppet-moding him. Then you could make him do whatever you wanted. Except. You can’t quite bring yourself to violate his autonomy like that. Even to save them.

Plus Sawtooth would probably kick your virtual ass to the virtual curb and then hand you your virtual dick in a bag.

AR: Look-  
AR: This is a very simple mathematical problem.  
AR: Five minutes traveling time divided by two minutes ‘til the implosion of the universe equals _get the fuck out of here you stupid pile of bolts_.  
ST: Not gonna happen.

In a fit of petulance, you disconnect from his sensors, sending yourself spiraling back into the confines of your two little splintered windows and your exciting view of ground, ground, and everything going to hell. Ha. That will teach him. Something. 

At least this way you’ll only experience your own inevitable fiery death.

…Shit.

AR: Look.  
AR: This is me, being completely, unironically serious.  
AR: And,  
AR: like,  
AR: Sincere.  
AR: I don’t exactly feel good about dying but it’s basically going to happen at this point and it will be marginally less shitty for me if I know I didn’t drag you guys with me.  
AR: So I am asking you to please  
AR: please  
AR: quit being a stubborn overly-independent son of a bitch for five seconds and get yourself and Squarewave through a god-damned door.  
AR: Okay?  
AR: …are you even listening to me?  
ST: ETA 30 seconds.  
ST: See you on the other side.  
AR: Wait, what?  
squareWave [SW] has left the universe!  
sawTooth [ST] has left the universe!

…what? 

You barely have time to form the thought (you have lots of time, eons of time, nearly 30 seconds of time, but most of your processors are offline and you’re kind of in the middle of a very involved panic attack slash emotional meltdown right now thank-you-very-much) before something scoops you up and takes off _fast_.

Really, very fast.

What?

Oh.

_Oh._

AR: And where the hell did you pop out of?  
LS: =:3  
autoResponder [AR] has left the universe!  
lilSebastian [LS] has left the universe!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking I'd break myself into Homestuck fanfic with some nice little oneshot romcom type thing and then instead I wrote 40K about two of the more obscure characters from the fandom and dumped them into a completely different world. 
> 
> Also half the characters hardly talk and I have to do things like write dialogue for _Sawtooth_. I still don't know what happened. But somehow it happened a lot?
> 
> Thanks for reading; I hope it's been fun so far!


	2. Feels like I am falling down (a rabbit hole)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which AR wakes up human. -ish.

You come back online to a blazing noon-day sun shining down on you. Only… you’re not actually online. Everything’s… wrong; you feel hot, you ache, there’s… pain. The sun’s too bright, and when you try to adjust your sensors you squint.

Your mind makes some very fast mental leaps. Holy fuck, you’re incarnate. 

You open your eyes wide, close them, open them again. You raise your hand and look at it stupidly. Human hand. Pale. Five fingers. Short neat nails. It’s kind of overwhelming.

Nope, too much, back it off a few steps. Okay. Those are some bitchin’ fingerless gloves. Just like Dirk’s. Except yours. Your gloves. Your hands. You are now piloting your very own flesh-ship. You have… arms and legs and things. And a pounding ache in your temple. Gingerly, you explore the area with your fingers, wincing as you slide your hand back over your left ear, into your hairline. Something metallic sparks and zaps you. Ow. What the fuck? 

You’re not Jake, so you don’t actually poke it again. Because that would be stupid.

Okay, you poke it one more time, but you do so analytically and in the spirit of scientific inquiry. It seems you have something small and mechanical welded into your skull, and it’s either broken or has some exposed wiring. See again: ouch.

Gathering your various limbs, you manage to sit up and take your first squinty-eyed look around. You’re sitting in the dust, in a street, in the middle of a sort of ramshackle city of broken buildings. There’s a katana on the ground beside you. You’d wonder more about that, but then you might as well still be wondering about your clothes, and your stylish new meat-suit, and anyway, it’s incredibly obvious what it is and why it’s here. 

It’s your katana. That is sufficient data for any Strider. It feels perfect in your hand, and it’s the first thing that hasn’t bombarded you with wrong-no-error-does-not-compute since you opened your eyes.

The city kind of reminds you of the Land of Tombs and Krypton, only the sky isn’t sickly green, and the buildings aren’t giant looming skyscrapers, nor are they tombs, and, okay, you can see that this analogy has run astray, let’s try a do-over. 

The city reminds you of the Land of Tombs and Krypton because everything seems hollow, and abandoned, and eerily still, and also oddly out of place, like the edges don’t line up quite right. You’re admittedly no expert on cities, except for the kind that have been skeletonized and submerged in the ocean for thousands of years, but the whole effect is a weirdly jig-sawed mash up. There’s neoclassical architecture mixed in with baroque and gothic and things you don’t recognize, and the buildings are all in different states of decay. Some of the most extreme damage looks really recent.

Yeah, you’re definitely not getting a good feeling about this. 

Pulling your katana closer, you stand up, edging back toward the wall of the building behind you. Time to get your bearings, figure out what the hell you’re doing here, and make a plan. Where are you, anyway?

Door. You went through an endgame door. Probably. Those last few minutes are fuzzy, corrupted file, wrong encryption key, something like that, but you definitely remember what came before. Most of that shit you don’t want to think about right now, but you know you were arguing with Sawtooth and Squarewave, trying to convince them to get out when every silent part of you was locked in an infinite loop of _don’t leave don’t leave me don’t leave me alone_ , and did they make it through a door? The same door as you? Are they here somewhere? And something else, right at the end— _Seb._ Oh, damn, li’l Seb, where’d that little bunny-bot get off to, did he--

Something moves in the corner of your vision, big, white, probably dangerous. There’s a moment where you just sort of stand there wondering why Dirk’s not busting out some moves and then reason catches up with you like a two-by-four to the brain. Belatedly you flashstep backwards, ducking into the cover of an alley between the buildings. That’s how it goes in your head anyway. In reality none of your parts function quite the way you’re expecting; your legs are too long, and your weight is all wrong, and bodies, what are they, how do they work. Tripping over your feet you reel into the alley and stumble smack into the wall. But you do it gracefully. Like a swan into a plate glass window. 

Peeling yourself off the bricks you place your feet in careful steps, one after the other, and creep back to the edge of the alley. The sun’s dead overhead, so there’s not much in the way of shadows to hide in, but you make use of the narrowness of the space between the walls and some rusted out trashcans for cover as you peer out, katana in hand.

Nothing moves. Everything’s quiet except for the low whistle of the wind and some raucous bird cries in the distance. The street looks completely deserted. Ghost town. If this was a western a tumbleweed would blow through. Maybe a haunting harmonica refrain. 

If this was a horror flick a zombie army would shamble into view.

You firm your grip on your katana, which is not at all functioning as a security object, no, shut up, and try to will your heartbeat steady; seriously, shit’s annoying as fuck, pounding away in your chest like a brass band on meth, waking the neighbors, ‘bout to get cited for disturbing the peace. …Nothing. You’d swear you saw something move, though. Unless your new eyesight is as glitchy as your legs. 

Actually, you reflect, if this was a horror flick this is the part where something unspeakable would jump you from behind.

 _Thump_ , goes something unspeakable behind you.

You strangle a very undignified squawk, levitate about a foot in the air, and try to flashstep again. So, obviously, you pick up more momentum than you’d expected as you wheel around, overshoot your target, and get tangled in your own legs trying to recover. The ground rushes up enthusiastically to make the acquaintance of your tailbone, introducing your knees and elbows to the line of metal trashcans in the process. As the clamor dies down, the final can reverberates like a noisy cymbal, rolling to a stop against a brick wall with a final clash and clang. 

Smooth moves, Strider.

You look up to find the unspeakable horror staring back at you with head tilted slightly in question. It’s a little blond kid in a thin grey hoodie, face solemn and eyes obscured by an extremely familiar pair of pointy sunglasses. He’s got a sword strapped to his back and a pair of metallic bunny ears poking out of his hood. The kawaii-animes have apparently been cranked up to eleven.

“…Li’l Sebastian?”

The robo-ears perk and he gives you a thumbs up, looking extremely pleased with himself. Everything about him says ‘smile’—except for his mouth. You are staring at a little kid with bunny ears who is smiling at you whilst not actually using his face. It’s actually kind of unsettling. 

Still nearly bouncing (or should that be hopping? Ha. Ha.), he extends his hands, presenting you with a second, larger pair of sunglasses. 

It’s—you wrestle with a disorienting moment of cognitive dissonance as your instincts try to insist that that’s you, you are over there, you are—your shades. He brought you your shades, and slipping them on is somehow even more of a comfort than your katana. The whatever-it-is on your temple hums and sparks as they slip into place. “Thanks, li’l dude.”

You get a little two finger salute, and an ear wiggle. It’s almost intolerably precious. Probably developed just to tweak Jane.

Forget Jane.

“Uh, can you talk?” 

“Mm!” he bobs his head. 

“That’s a yes?”

“Mm!”

“…Can you say words?”

“Mm-hm!”

You think about that answer for a little while, then mentally shrug and figure he’d know better than you. “Okay then.” 

You lever yourself up off the ground—ouch, pain, why does it keep happening to you?—and brush yourself off as nonchalantly as possible. You wonder if this is karmic retribution for making fun of Dirk for falling down so much earlier. You decide you don’t actually want to think about that. Any of that. In fact, you are kicking that topic and all related topics straight into full on repression mode, black-listed in all countries, full system wipe, go. “So. You’ve been doing the human ambulatory thing longer than me—you got any clue where we are?”

Shrug, headshake.

“Didn’t think so. Anyone else around?” Sawtooth, you’re hoping. And Squarewave.

His head tips and he points, indicating one of the taller buildings flanking the alley. “Up there.” In a series of jumps and scrambles he’s made it to the roof almost before you spot the access ladder part way up the wall. Apparently, he’s not having your difficulties with the new human vehicle. Contemplating the climb, you realize your face has twisted up into an irritated grimace, and you mentally smack yourself as you try to work out just how long it’s been doing things without your say-so. Probably from the start. 

Well, fuck that noise. You are the captain of this flesh-ship and you will not tolerate insubordination and mutiny. All hands are going to fall into line or be brought up on charges. There will be court martials and time in the brig and your word will be law. Schooling your face back to impassivity, you square your shoulders, face the wall, and get your ass up onto that roof. When you focus on each individual action as a series of steps it goes more smoothly, and you manage not to disgrace yourself on the way up. Nothing fancy, but you damn well scale that wall like it’s on a fad diet and you’re the accountability partner.

Seb’s waiting at the top—cocky little brat—with a finger to his lips. You follow him across the roof, and look out across a limited view of the city. After a few minutes you shoot Li’l Seb a questioning look.

Then something slides into view.

Something, really, very big.

“Look ye, Starbuck. It’s the motherfucking white whale,” you murmur, unable to turn your eyes away. It’s a good few blocks away, but still easily visible, moving between the buildings in a white ripple like a streamer. It looks like a giant, many-legged snake, both insectoid and reptilian. Its head, easily as big as you, casts back and forth across the road in front of it, hunting. Your hindbrain makes some unsettling suggestions about what something that size might be hunting for. A few moments later whatever it is has passed back out view, as silently as it came. You sit back against the edge of the roof and look blankly up at the pale sky.

Well. Food for thought. With that white hide it could almost be one of the hellbeasts from Jake’s island--except it doesn’t look like any kind of lusus you’ve ever heard of. In fact, it kind of reminds you of one of the mash-up monsters from the Game. Oh, god, what if you’re still in the Game? Like that one movie—what was it?—with the evil room, and every time they thought they’d made it out they were really still in the room? Jake would know. Nope, actually, you’re not going to think about Jake. You’re going to think about surviving. And kicking ass. 

Luckily those are two things Striders excel at. You turn back to Li’l Seb. “We got shit to do, little man.”

\--------

The most challenging part of scouting the town is your complete lack of practical experience with human habitations. Actually, you’ve got your doubts about the ‘human’ part, but the key point is that growing up in a three room apartment in the middle of the ocean hasn’t really equipped you to parse random urban sprawl, no matter how many tactics books and survivalist manuscripts you’ve accessed. Or maybe this place is just fucking weird. There seems to be no pattern or logic to this city’s layout, with small personal dwellings slotted in alongside empty shops and multistory complexes. Without any better data, you survey the territory in rough transects, sticking to the buildings as much as possible; maintaining a wary look out for the centi-snake or any of the other multi-formed monsters you’ve since spotted from the rooftops. 

You draw three conclusions during your search:  
1\. There were people here until very recently.  
2\. These people weren’t so much living in the city as… occupying it.  
3\. They left in a hell of a hurry.

Welp, that’s extremely creepy. Still, in some ways, it’s fortunate. No people means no encounters with potential hostiles, and a quick departure means there’s a ton of random shit left scattered around the city. Li’l Seb’s a pro at getting into places he’s not meant to be, zipping around and probably covering three times as much ground as you, and he turns up all sorts of useful caches, directing your attention with gesture, or a “look!”, or an occasional pleased proclamation (“knives!”).

Seb’s a quiet companion and you wonder if that’s because he didn’t have a voice as a bot. Of all Dirk’s mechanical creations, only Squarewave and Sawtooth were ever given voices, and those were the two that Dirk kept far away from his friends. A resentful little kernel in you wonders if he was afraid the others would find the creations more tolerable than the creator. (And then there was you, a voice with no body to speak it.)

Seb’s quiet, but extremely energetic. He’s basically a miniature version of you and Dirk, as far as you can make out, so you recognize the restless energy. There’s a cheerful quality to it, though, that you think must have come from “growing up” in the Crocker household. Or maybe all kids are happy little heart-attack generators on speed; what do you know. 

He scares the fuck out of you a couple times, popping out of walls and ventilation shafts, and, once, an unintentionally morbid pile of store mannequins. You manage not to shriek or fall over anymore, you are much too suave for that, thank you, but you’re pretty sure your disobedient human meat-mask betrays you. He’s keeping you on your toes, at least. You need to get up to snuff fast.

Food, water, shelter. These are the must-haves for biological lifeforms, the ranks of which you and your little bunny-bro appear to have joined. That’s just the start of the list. Medical supplies, clothing, weapons—you’ve both got your katanas, but you won’t feel comfortable until you’ve got a good deal more offensive options than ‘whack it with a sharp thing.’ Tech would be good, too. Seb’s got those ears, and you’ve got the minor matter of an unknown, malfunctioning piece of tech apparently plugged into your brain, so yes, some appropriate equipment and a few hours for a full system scan would seem to be pretty high on the ever-expanding to-do list. It’s a dizzying web of ‘if/thens’, unknown variables, and infinite priority trees, and somehow it’s up to you to plot a course through for both of you. 

You sigh and squint at the blender-thing in your hands, annoyed when you have to manually adjust the brightness setting on your shades. (Instead of just, you know. Being shades.) It’ll be getting dark soon. It’s about time for the two of you to find somewhere to hole up for the night. You’re not certain how the sleep issue is going to play out—it’s inconvenient and unsettling, but humans that don’t have dream bodies to slip into biologically require sleep, and as far as you’re aware you fit that category. Tch. Maybe you can take shifts with Seb. (Maybe you can make an electronic copy of yourself to take up the slack of inadequate biology. Ha. Ha. Irony.)

“Seb? We need to get moving.”

There’s a flurry of ash and he drops down out of the chimney, dusted lightly grey from head to toe and looking pleased with himself. 

“If you get your servos clogged up you’re cleaning them out yourself.” 

Seb tips his head and flicks his ears at you, patently sardonic.

“Sure, be like that. I’m not the one that’s going to have to scrub up with a handful of water and a wet washcloth tonight. I don’t know what we’re going to do about your clothes. Beat ‘em out with a stick or something.” Showers. Laundry machines. The lost treasure of the Aztecs. Probably all about equally likely to enter your life any time soon. You catch your lips curling down and give your face a mental dressing down. You look the chimney over again, noting the way it sets in the wall and visualizing the exterior layout of the building. “Anything up there? It doesn’t look connected into the building properly.”

Seb follows your gaze, rocking up on the balls of his feet and bouncing slightly. “Attic. It’s big.” He tosses you a small, coin-sized item from the front pocket of his hoodie. 

You snatch it out of the air—yay, hand-eye coordination—and look it over. “Liquid semiconductor. Nice.” No wonder the kid looks smug. This little battery could power a bot for a day, fully charged. “Hm. Maybe we should come back here tomorrow.” Or maybe you should make a start tonight? You could scout out a better access route so you don’t have to start tomorrow climbing a grimy rock tube. There’s possibly just enough time, if you’re efficient and you cut across the roofs later. Back a few blocks that office complex had that nice interior room with the thick walls, defensible but with multiple exit routes. You’re staring (grimacing) at the battery, lost in internal calculations, when a small hand lands on your arm, Seb silently snagging your attention. 

It’s such a small thing, a negligible gesture, but the sudden feeling of flesh on flesh jolts you like an unbuffered voltage spike, striking at a vulnerability you didn’t know you had. It’s intimate and impersonal in a way that hurts. No one's ever touched you before, not even in Dirk’s memories, and you remember the way Jane and Jake would spring hugs on people in the Game, Roxy hanging off of everyone in reach, secret half-smiles on Dirk’s face when he didn’t think his friends were looking. Worse, you remember private pesterlog conversations with Roxy, ironical, half-sincere flirting, a hazy tangle of confusion about Jake, a borrowed mess of feelings that was never truly yours, and they left you— _they left you_ —and, shit, you’re freaking Seb out, get it together.

You find yourself pressed back against a wall, cornered, defensive, and you’re no longer grimacing, you’re silent snarling, teeth bared. Seb’s back against the opposite wall, braced and wary, and he’s still blank-faced but you’ve got years of experience deciphering Dirk’s nonspressions and he’s just the half-pint model; you can tell he’s scared. One of his hands (the hand that grabbed you?) is folded up tight to his chest.

Fuck, did you _hit_ him? You are a _terrible person_. You are the _worst person_. It’s you.

“Shit.” You clear your throat, try again. “Shit, I—“

That’s when giant mutant spiders erupt out of the chimney.

Obviously.

There’s seven of them, all about the size of small dogs except instead of being yappy and obnoxious they’re more silent and horrifying. They have leathery grey skin stretched tight over rawboned, many-jointed endoskeletons, and the side to side jitter as they run makes their speed deceptive. The first two skitter towards Li’l Seb, but you don’t get to see what happens because the next two _leap_ for you in a sudden rush of snapping, pincer-like chelicerae and suddenly you’re playing the ‘human bodies are breakable and hard to use’ game again. 

At least this time you remember that you’re driving this clown car. You get your sword out and up in time for an easy block—they’re in the air; it’s not like they can dodge—but you fumble the timing slightly and it turns your edged kill strike into a mere bludgeon. They tumble away from you, and one of the spiders lands on its back, stunned. You catch your balance and meet the other as it boomerangs back for you, slicing it full across the face, your blade skidding on thick bone before sliding home in the side of the abdomen, spattering ichor in an arc. 

You jerk free, turning to try to see how Seb’s doing, and nearly miss the new spider coming up fast in your blind spot. Wheeling and stumbling, you fall on your ass but still get your sword braced before you, using the spider’s own momentum to drive home the blade, straight between those snapping, horror movie jaws. Spiders are definitely not supposed to have massive sideways-champing teeth. The creature shudders and heaves as it dies, and your sword jams against the armored chelicerae, nearly wrenching free from your grip. Since the first not-spider’s recovered its feet and there’s a fourth spider coming up fast on your flank you grit your teeth and hang on, wrestling it free more by force of adrenaline than skill. You get up an overarm block as the spider on your right hits you, jaws and legs scrabbling on the blade, just out of range of your face. This leaves you wide open for the remaining spider, but luckily this is when L’il Seb charges in like a bunny out of hell. 

He’s a blur of flash-stepping movement, cutting off the spider charging you and zipping nimbly back out of range, even as the one currently trying to chew your face off decides he’d make a better target and goes for him, too. His size shortens his range but gives him plenty of maneuvering room, and he’s got the speed and agility to take advantage of it. One of the not-spiders lunges and he turnsteps on a dime, flashing back in from the side to slice through the vulnerable abdomen. He dispatches the remaining spider on the backswing. The abrupt silence of the aftermath seems to ring in your ears.

You climb to your feet, looking around. There’s seven mutant spider carcasses scattered dead or disabled around the room. Two for you, and five for the little bunny boy.

Welp. You feel superfluous.

The upper half of one of the creatures twitches spasmodically, still reflexively reaching for you. You place your sword point between faceted eyes and press down until the endoskeleton gives way and it convulses and stills. Seb’s tugging and shoving at an over-turned table, and you slide in next to him to help maneuver it into place blocking the chimney. When you’re finished he immediately backs off a few paces, a careful distance. He’s silent, watching you slightly sideways. His hands are tucked behind his back.

…Right.

You shift your weight, feeling awkward and wordless. “That was good work back there,” you offer. Blank silence meets you. “Seriously, li’l dude. You saved my ass.”

That gets you a shrug. He tips his head to look at you more directly, but his face and posture remain neutral. His ears, slightly more expressive, twitch forward and then back. You need to fix this.

“…Hey. Look.” Words. You can make them. “Seb. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have flipped out on you back there.”

Now he’s looking straight at you, and his careful posture has dropped into something like… surprise? 

Wait, what?

“You know you didn’t do anything wrong, don’t you?” you ask. The burgeoning realization that you are an asshole in ways you hadn’t even realized is creeping over you. Because, no, for some reason he apparently doesn’t, if that vulnerable uncertainty is anything to go by. Well, shit. “No. _No._ You really didn’t. That was entirely my fuck up. I’m the one that lost my shit back there for no good reason.”

He’s still giving you this cautious, blank face, but there’s a hopeful, questioning tilt to it now. You’ve been thinking of him as the ‘little bunny kid’ but it for the first time it strikes you that the relevant word in that phrase might just be ‘kid.’ Exactly what maturity level does a hyper-intelligent, semi-sentient robotic-companion-bunny-turned-human work out to? 

Shit, you don’t know anything about kids. 

Seb’s still watching you.

“I just…” Oh, hell, you’re going to have to Feelings, aren’t you? You blow out a breath and run a hand up through your hair, where the lack of gel means it’s falling in loose spikes. “I’m… still getting used to the whole body thing and…” Your face is doing something stupid and unnecessary; you can feel it. “It seems I’m not very used to people. At all.” You find you can’t elaborate, so you settle for trying to straighten out the mess you made. “Sorry. _Really_ sorry.” You pause, both to clear some headspace and to look him over. “I hurt you?”

That gets you a quick headshake, very slightly disdainful. Cocky kid, you think, but you’re pleased. You lay your next words down carefully, judgment free, almost gentle. “…I freak you out?”

Little shrug.

That’s probably safe to interpret as ‘yes.’

You don’t like him quiet and careful like this. You really don’t like feeling like an unmitigated asshole. You’re much more used to people straight up calling you out for your general douchebaggery. That’s somehow way easier than…this.

You step up closer to him, and, remembering a bit of psychology, drop down so you can look at him straight on. Shades to shades. “All right. Clearly the status quo is untenable. So. That drama bullshit’s getting tossed out the window as of right now. I promise I’m not going to flip my shit on you again, all right? You just…surprised me. You maybe shouldn’t grab me, but….yeah. I’ll get better at this.” 

Your lips twist in a rueful half smirk. “Like the spiders, right? I mean, I know you’re a straight up bad ass motherfucker and you don’t really need any help with your routine but I can’t be sitting around on my ass every time, letting you rack up all the smooth moves and swag points.” 

This actually earns you the appearance of the not-a-smile smile, his ears perking up, countenance brightening. 

You let your smirk widen to flash teeth, oddly self-satisfied. “I’ll just need to work the kinks out of this glitchy flesh ship. I guess there’s a high probability I might be kind of a drag for a while. Sorry about that.”

Seb’s definitely cheerful now, and you shove yourself back to your feet, feeling relieved. Something you didn’t fuck up today. Speaking of which. “Shit. We lost some time. We’d better get moving.”

Seb hesitates a moment, but then slips up alongside you, close but not touching, cautious, but not alarmed. You look down at him, your mouth twisting to the side in thought. After a moment, you reach across and solemnly offer your fist, eyebrow raised. “Bump?”

He regards you soberly, before reaching up and carefully knocking his knuckles against yours. “Bump.”

You grin, catch your breath, and then reach up and bat your hand lightly across the hood of his sweatshirt. 

Okay. You got this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you had fun! Comments appreciated.  
> And I'll see y'all next week.
> 
> Ps: if you're enjoying this story, [Asher](http://asherdashery.tumblr.com/post/39774439008/form-function-ar-and-lil-sebs-adventures-in-kicking) and [Lantadyme](http://lantadyme.tumblr.com/post/39825340782) have both written on this not-prompt already and they are fantastic, talented writers so I'd urge you to check those out (...because I can't read them until I wrap up my own plotbunny *sadface.*)
> 
> *edit 2/14* Gorgeous [chapter art](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/111016395840/chuchacz-hey-look-words-you-can-make) by chuchacz. Go look!


	3. What would my head be like (if not for my shoulders)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedtime for all good cyborgs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I haven't already mentioned, I owe many thanks to Ducthulu for betaing, especially as my strategy for acquiring a beta was pretty much run him down and twist his arm. I fret a lot about character voice, and D has been great at pointing out trouble spots. It's thanks to him AR will never use the word "fannie" unironically. All remaining flaws are the product of my own troubled mind.

You do not “got this.” There is basically no way you can, in good conscience, describe this situation as “gotten.” In fact, it is far enough beyond the reach of your grasping digits it is probably being probed by little green space men with anger issues and serious sister-complexes. 

You fold your arms and frown down at the little bunny-boy in front of you. You catch yourself and make your face stop doing that. “You are making this a way bigger thing than it needs to be.”

Behind his shades, Seb stares right back at you, uncowed. He is this tiny little adorable thing but his body language is stone stubborn. His arms are also folded. His poker face is way better than yours. “Am not.”

_Are too_ , you chirp back, but don’t say out loud. Somebody has to elevate this conversation beyond the grade-school level. “This is a universal human thing. You are now human—” he flicks his robotic ears; you award him a mental point “—ergo, this is a thing that applies to you now. Suck it up and deal.” Not exactly your most diplomatic phrasing, but you’ve been going round on this for ten minutes now, and your bullshit tolerance meter is on empty. “It’s not like I can just pop a plutonium nugget in you.”

He just stands there, defying reality to move him when he doesn’t want to be moved. Stare down with the universe, 3-2-1, _go_. You’d probably feel some second-hand pride (Strider unity, yo) if you didn’t happen to be on the side of the universe at the moment. Besides, while you can certainly get behind nonconformity, you can’t help thinking this situation could benefit more from a good dose of stoic pragmatism.

“You have to eat.”

Nope, nothing. His posture just gets more antagonistic and intractable. This has got to be the most contained, well-controlled tantrum you have ever witnessed. In another time and place you’d probably find it adorably hilarious. Right now it just makes you want to beat your head against a wall. You’re not certain if this is an attribute of children in general or Striders in particular. (Dirk was an insufferable prick, but somehow dealing with him never seemed quite this unmanageable.) Maybe it’s a Strider-children thing. Hell, maybe it’s a Seb thing.

You’re not sure what his deal is, except for a general sort of ‘human bodies are weird and I do not appreciate being out of control of my experiences.’ You can empathize with that. This day has been one long string of weird and unpleasant experiences mostly beyond your control. Seb doesn’t even have a hand-me-down set of human memories to filter this shit through. But, fuck, he’s just being so completely unreasonable.

“This is ridiculous. I am not going to stand here and argue with you about simple facts,” you say, ignoring the minor detail that that is exactly what you are doing. Your head hurts. With a frustrated huff, you plop down against the wall, temporarily ignoring the problem of your obnoxious companion. You’ve got a secured room full of pilfered supplies and what looks to be a tediously long night ahead of you.

You open one of the cans of Tab. Orange Fanta it is not. No calories, either, but at least it’s hydrating. Next, you use a knife to lever open one of your stash of anonymous canned goods. It turns out to be ham. You weren’t aware ham came in cans. Whatever. You stab a slice with your knife and take a bite. Maybe you should have stronger feelings about your first eating experience in years and/or ever depending on definition of terms, but honestly you find yourself completely neutral on the topic. It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s just a thing. Like charging a battery or breathing. Maybe if you had better food you could be assed to give a damn. 

You munch doggedly away, debating the pros and cons of sampling any of the truly alarming stock of Crocker products you and Seb recovered around the city. You’re hoping this doesn’t mean there’s a Batterwitch somewhere in this universe. At least you don’t have any ancestors around for her to assassinate. You don’t think.

Your eyes flick back to Seb. For once he hasn’t wandered off; he’s still standing there, watching you eat, looking stubborn and miserable behind the shades. You tip your canned ham towards him, raise an eyebrow. He looks away, mecha bunny ears folded flat to his head. A renewed pang of sympathy curls in your stomach. Actually, you feel a good deal better than you did a few minutes ago, and you’re reminded that nutritional state affects mood. Smaller biological lifeforms require less food but burn through it more quickly. Growing things also need nourishment more often. 

In other words, kids get cranky when they don’t eat. Science, bitches.

You check in with the meat puppet you’re wearing, and decide you’re both probably tired, too. It seems it’s past bedtime for the proto-humans.

You look Seb over again, and wisely decide not to point out your conclusions. Somehow that doesn’t seem likely to be productive. How did Li’l Cal manage with you when you were his age? All your pre-shades Dirk-memories are hazy and vague and you don’t know if that’s an age thing or a transference thing. You’re not even sure how old Seb’s supposed to be anyway. Six? Eight? Ten? 

Right. You know shit about kids. This is stupid.

You abandon that tactically useless angle of attack. There’s no point strategizing from incomplete information. Poor recon equals bad decisions. And doesn’t that just apply to everyone present? Silence hangs in the room as you eat your ham, alone. Eventually Seb sits near you, knees pulled up, resting his chin on his arm. Between the hood and the shades his face is almost hidden.

“You know,” you say into the silence, “when I pictured being human somehow it never looked like this.” Deliberately, you do not think about some of the scenarios you had pictured. For starters, they mostly assumed you’d still be with...other people. But you’re not thinking about that. “This here? Represents an extremely shitty actualization of that picture.” You take another bite of your canned ham. “Kind of cool; still shitty. Irony.” You glance sideways at Seb. “Do you wish you were still a bot?”

“No.”

The speed and certainty of the response startles a breath of laughter from you. It’s a bit sharp edged. You feel exposed, and inside you’re nothing but sterile fluff and shitty swords, no moving parts. “No. No I guess not. That was…a different kind of shitty.” You look at that too-solemn face, similar to yours in ways that have nothing to do with the physical and feel another pang, bone deep. Ah, yes, guilt and self-recrimination—normally you leave those to Dirk. The responsible party gets to eat the consequences, and all that shit. Wow, karma’s a vindictive bitch. You totally need to lose her number. 

“Were you… We weren’t trying to fuck you up. It was supposed to be a present for Jane, something to look out for her, keep her safe, ha, fucking savior complex. We didn’t—Dirk never made anything wanting it to be miserable.” Except maybe you, but, then, you were his reflection, his voice in the dark. Like maybe the two of you could sanity check each other instead of just amplifying the fallout from your screw ups and ha ha—were you just thinking that your mood had improved? 

“I _know_.” Seb sounds so offended it completely derails your angst train. Right off the tracks, tiny mopey thought-passengers bouncing comically everywhere. You blink, looking up at him. He’s facing you directly. He doesn’t look damaged—just annoyed. “Stupid.”

You thin your lips at him. “I am attempting to convey sincere regrets here. It seems probable you are dissing my indirect attempt at an apology as well as my subtle efforts to evaluate your psychological welfare.”

“Really stupid.”

“No, you’re stupid.” It slips out this time. Auto-response. It’s definitely got nothing to do with you being grateful for the opportunity to declare the topic concluded. 

He gives you a long, assessing look through the shades, like he’s trying to calculate your mood. “…No you.”

For some reason the edges of your lips quirk up. You flatten that back out. “You.”

“You.”

“You.”

“You!”

You reach out and pull on his hood until he tips over. “You.”

Seb lets himself be tipped, but twists and rolls easily, popping back up to a ready crouch in front of you, bouncing on his heels. Cheerful now. “You iterated to infinity.”

“That, cubed.”

“You can’t cube infinity.”

“Ha. Infinite volume is bigger than an infinite line. Game, set, match.”

“I-“

“Nope, too slow, li’l dude. Admit defeat like a fucking gentleman.” That mutinous discontent is starting to gather around his person again, so you speak quickly, dropping down words like sandbags at a flood. “I win a point; I get a forfeit. If you score off me you can claim a forfeit.”

That makes him pause, somewhere between intrigued and suspicious. His lack of an expression is very nearly a frown. “…’m _not_ eating.”

“Not gonna make you. You’re like a little brick wall, and my head hurts. Bang bang bang—it’s getting real old. ‘Little engine that won’t’ is you. Fine. I get that. You go on and make your own decisions. God knows I’ve fucked up enough of my own life choices; don’t know why I’d be better equipped to make yours.” You set knife and can to one side and lean forward, hands on knees. “Okay, listen up, and I’mma lay it on you. What I want for my forfeit is for you—to listen up.”

Seb tips his head, one ear up and one ear tilted in a pose that looks extremely skeptical. 

“You’re going to stop stone-walling and hear me out one time through. One, genuine, good faith effort to _listen_. You get the facts first, and _then_ you make your decision. That’s just good tactics. Dial down the stubborn and use your brain, li’l bro. I know you’ve got one; I helped code it.” You flash him a smirk. “Think you can handle that?”

That hits the mark, maybe harder than you meant it to. He jerks his head once, down then up, and takes a seat cross-legged in front of you, moving stiffly like an offended cat. Crossing his arms, he points his shades your direction and pointedly tilts his ears towards you.

“All right.” You’ve had time, now, to plan your approach. “Preface: I’m going to go ahead and skip all the tedious ‘omg eat or u die!!’ bullshit. You’re a smart cyborg-bunny-kid; you know this shit, I know you know this shit, you know I know you know this shit, let’s not get side-tracked into an infinite vortex of insightfulness here.” You flick a hand, brushing that issue aside. Gestures are fun.

“Not eating is not going to give you control over your new meat suit. It gives your body control over you.” You give that a moment to percolate. Seb’s face is hard to judge, but he’s listening, and that’s all you need. “You need to eat because the bronco’s loose in the pen and it’s either ride it or get out of the rodeo. Which in this case probably means having your brains stamped into finely minced pavement pâté. You cannot negotiate with this pony, and it is too late for clowns. In fact there are no clowns. Clowns will not fucking save you.” 

The words are flowing now, a sharp, measured clip that leaves no room for softness. “It’s not like running out of power. You don’t just go until you shut down. You will get slow and you will get weak and you will get _stupid_. The kind of stupid where you wind up sitting through a lecture based solely on the fact that I said ‘no, you’ more times; seriously, what the fuck, li’l dude? 

“You will make mistakes and you will fuck up and you may not get the chance to correct them. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to, either.” Seb is blank dark lenses and blank face staring at you and you feel like a tool but you push on. “I’m going to do my god-damnedest and work my ass off to get up to speed ‘cause I know I’m the weak link right now, but I can’t promise I’ll be good enough. I can’t promise that we won’t both wind up dead. Because I am sure as hell not cutting out on you but I don’t think I can get us both through this alone.” 

Low blow, but it’s the one you calculate has the highest probability of striking home, and you don’t know what’s going on in this world, and you don’t know how much time you have to soft-foot around the issue. Maybe you’ve got time to let him work through everything naturally and healthily at his own pace but maybe tomorrow morning you’ll both be fighting an army of mutant spiders. You need both of you to get through this in one piece. You _will_ make that happen.

It’s pretty blatant manipulation, but if you’re yanking strings at least you know you’re not pulling anything that’s not tied just as strongly to yourself. Dirk “Path of Self” Strider had had a bad tendency of imprinting splinters of his personality on everything he came in contact with. 

…Yeah, who are you kidding, you are an asshole. What higher power decided you should be made responsible for a small child again?

Regardless, you’ve said your bit (and you kind of hate yourself for it) so you decide it’s about time you held up your end of the bargain and laid the fuck off. Seb’s not moving, and you don’t know how to interpret that perfect blank stillness. You wonder if it’s as noisy and unpleasant inside his head as it is in yours. Hopefully not. He’s, like, a double handful of years old; surely life was easier at that age. Simpler, at least?

You turn slightly to the side he’s not, engaging your attention in opening up a second mystery can, giving him what space you can. This one turns out to be corn. You don’t think you can eat it with a knife (well, okay, technically you _could_ but you’d have to skewer it a kernel at a time and that would be really fucking stupid) so you give up and start taking slugs straight out of the can. Classy.

You’re halfway through your corn-drink when the abandoned ham can beside you blurs and vanishes in the corner of your vision. You keep your attention carefully forward. After a while, you pass the corn over, only glancing long enough to see him take it. 

Getting to hands and knees, you rummage around until you come up with some tools and a bit of broken mirror. You figure if you’re going to literally be some kind of incarnated machine-Dirk you will at least be a fully functional one. Plus: headache. 

Between the mirror and the various tools and the spikes of blond hair falling everywhere it’s kind of a pain to manage everything. You have to abandon your shades to one side when they get in the way, but somehow you find a workable position and set to poking at the bit of malfunctioning tech embedded in your skull. A few minutes later Seb comes over and takes the mirror from you, holding it without being asked. Something unknots in your chest. 

“Thanks, li’l man.” It emerges muffled by the screwdriver between your teeth, so you flash him a quick thumbs up around a handful of equipment before focusing again on your work. 

It’s more than a little mortifying to realize you’re not as good at the hands-on robotics stuff as Dirk was. You can probably get by, but you’ve lost the touch, or maybe that part never transferred over. It’s all theoretical to you, and the slight instinctive disconnect between brain and hands is frustrating as hell. You’re leagues better at coding—hell, you were the god-damned matrix, Agent Smith might as well be a neophyte—but what good’s that going to do you anymore?

Your steady stream of grumbles devolves into straight up cursing as your hands slip yet again, and the tiny wire and chip assembly you’re trying to reroute vanishes into the tangle. Something sparks and you drop your tools completely, grimacing as the slight ache behind your temple magnifies into an intense pounding headache. Ow ow ow fuck damn. 

“I could do it.” 

Look who found a voice again. That’s probably a good sign. You squint sideways at Seb, gritting your teeth. “…yeah?”

His head bobs, decisive. You’re not really sure you want someone else poking around at any part of you, much less preforming what is feeling more and more like brain surgery. You will perform your own invasive med-technical operations, thank you very much. On the other hand… you look Seb over. Solemn and just a bit too intense, almost radiating a desire to be useful. …Shit.

“All right.” You make yourself drop your hands away from your head, passing over your makeshift toolset. You’ve directed the little bunny-bot through repairs before, you know he knows his way around mechanics. Still, you can’t help prompting, “You saw what I was doing?”

“Mm.” Another earnest nod.

“Okay,” you say a bit helplessly, nervy and unsettled. “Come at me, bro.”

In the end, it only takes a few minutes of close work. He’s got small, deft fingers and a way better angle to work from; the repair’s complete almost before you finish bracing yourself. Seb sits back, looking pleased with himself, and you reach up blind and complete the final connection, patching the entire assembly back into…your brain, you suppose. (You are max comfortable with this arrangement where you don’t know what’s going on with your hardware or your wetware, really, just absolutely chill.)

It’s not immediately clear what effect the repairs have, although the all-encompassing headache tapers off. When you slip your shades back on, however, you’re rewarded with a slight hum and—praise the little tentacle monsters in the sky—an actual, legit HUD lighting up the lenses. It’s a little like coming home. 

“Now _this_ ,” you inform Seb with razor cheer, “I can work with.”

\-----

You take a break a little while later to run through a quick cool-down routine and some stretches with Seb (and also to distract him from making an ungodly mess of the supplies. It seems he regards destroying things as an appropriate tool to alleviate boredom. Or possibly he’s just exercising his curiosity). This leads into a combo discussion-lecture-negotiation on the topic of sleep: how does it work; why do we do it; what is the deal with dreams; further digressing into why the two of you need to take shifts and no, he _is_ going to take the first shift because you are still working and also growing humans need more sleep. All right, yes, technically adolescents also require extra sleep, but you are still older and more grown and he is a tiny little bunny boy and needs to stop arguing with everything you say. Half the time he’s not even using words, he’s just got the most loquacious body language you’ve ever seen.

Fortunately, it seems the sleep issue doesn’t bother him the way the eating issue did. You recall he spent large portions of his time in the Crocker household deactivated. He mostly seems intrigued by the idea that his brain will make up memories ‘like a video game.’ For your part, you are apparently a complete hypocrite re: dealing with human shit because your instincts are still doing a panicky little chant of ‘do not want’ and you’re wondering if you can just never sleep, ever.

…It’s possible you’re employing a bit of denial.

You’ve finally got Seb established with some blankets and a makeshift bedroll. He’s still fidgety and not showing any signs of settling down anytime soon, but you’ve emptied your cache of sleep-related data and it seems nature will just have to run its course. You wish Li’l Cal was around for him to curl up with. Li’l Cal is much better with kids than you are. You think you wouldn’t mind sleeping yourself if he were here. All kids should be as lucky as you and/or Dirk were with an awesome puppet-bro to look after you. 

Cal loved you as much as Dirk.

Wow, maudlin. Anyway. Back to actually productive undertakings... 

You have the room darkened down to one small electric light to work by—with your shades’ capabilities neither you nor Seb really need a light source to get shit done except, hello, you actually do because your shades are what you are working on. Or fiddling with idly, to be more accurate. It’s something to keep you occupied. Now that you’ve got your headtech online, you can tell there’s some malfunction in the shades as well. Apparently the damage you took at the end of the Game translated over on multiple levels. (You wonder, does this mean your shades still count as part of you? Maybe an extension of your Self? Or maybe more like the decaying husk of the corpse you climbed out of. You think you prefer the first analogy.)

For example, you’re pretty sure there’s a messaging feature you can get working. And then you would have the ability to…text-chat with Seb, you suppose. Instead of using words, out loud, like you are at the moment because, yes, he is actually in the same room, and that is a thing humans do. 

Currently, you’ve been drafted to give an impromptu lecture on the utility of stretching and the mechanics of human muscles. Seb’s participation has mostly been to repeatedly prompt you with “but why…?” whenever you show signs of wrapping up. You don’t really mind. The questions seem to be coming with longer and longer loading times, though, so maybe he’s getting sleepy?

“…but most people spend most of their time sitting down, so the hip flexors don’t get stretched properly and tighten up. It’s why a lot of old people stoop; the muscles have shortened too much. Daily stretching can alleviate this.” You pause, hands still on your work as you wait for it…

“But why stretch muscles we do use?” 

There it is. Heh. You’re speaking again even as you tweak the alignment of the next chip in your shades’ circuitry. “Even muscles you use a lot generally don’t get pushed to their full potential. Just like you can build a muscle up with exercise, you can extend the range of movement with stretching. It also prevents injury. Within limits, but there’s a lot of room for improvement. One thing humans do a hell of a lot better than bots is grow.”

Seb’s quiet for a while, maybe drifting, more likely turning this new idea around to get a look at it from every angle. He’s curled in his blankets and bed roll with his head pillowed on folded arms so he can watch you work while still maintaining the pretense that he is trying to sleep. Eventually he asks, “Could I be as strong as Sawtooth?”

That puts a twist of a smile on your face. “Stronger.”

He thinks some more, then asks with some hesitation, “…what about Dirk?”

“…him, too.”

“Could I be as smart as you?”

Why is your face suddenly burning oh god stop that right now. You lean closer over your shades to better see your work. Your voice, when you speak, comes out sounding rough and disused. “Smarter.”

Seb bounces a little (while lying down. The kid could be used as dryer sheets, you swear). Then he tips his head in his arms and twitches his ears at you in a gesture that you are starting to recognize as a Seb-evil-grin. “Could I be cooler than you?”

You bark out a breath of laughter. “Brat. Nobody’s cooler than me. I am so cool I am negative Kelvin. Physicists are running around making up a new temperature system just for me. I am the coolest.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re the cool- _least_.”

“Oh my god was that a pun? Who taught you to pun? That is terrible; you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m ashamed for you. Wash your mouth out with soap right this instant.”

The kid ducks his head, laying his ears back and doing a completely insincere imitation of guilt. “Sorry, bro.”

“You got this from that Jane girl, didn’t you. I knew those Crockers were a bad influence. You’re young and susceptible to bad elements.” The banter flows with surprising ease; the subject leaving your soft spots unagressed, at least just at this moment.

Seb tucks down into his hood and pretends to be asleep. You shake your head and go back to work on your shades. A short time later you look over and realize the kid’s out for real. Huh.

The room’s quiet and dim, but not desolate, and nothing’s the way you thought it would be. Your brain feels fogged, but not sleepy, and you shift from tinkering with circuitry to poking about in the code which you can do almost automatic, barely thinking. 

You drift.

You jerk, lifting your chin from your chest. Who—what—how—? What just…? You were coding, and… Were you sleeping? Were you _coding in your sleep_?

Through your confusion you become aware of softly blinking text in the corner of your lenses. You don’t remember when that got there.

\--Two new messages recovered.--

You are suddenly completely awake.

It’s not pesterchum or trollian or any recognizable messaging program. You can’t track the connection back because there isn’t one. The private channel of origin—and you’re beginning to suspect you know exactly which channel this is—is completely scrambled, and every other connection you try is non-functional. Nothing else is gonna be going in or out.

The first message appears to be entirely incoherent stream-of-consciousness rapping. You’re familiar enough with the style to note the irregularities, the increased incoherence, as well as the genuine concern buried in posturing and bluster and awkward wordplay. It seems Squarewave is anxious about his ‘sweet robo-bros, dogg.’ Or he is completely glitched. It’s hard to tell. Holy shit, will he have been fleshified, too? The mind boggles. You move along before you strain anything.

The second message has been arranged in perfect iambic pentameter, which is, of course, the highest form of ironic rap. This is particularly impressive considering it consists exclusively of a series of coordinates.


	4. (Since the fall) nobody seems to know my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsters and strangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asherdashery drew the most AMAZING adorable artwork of Li'l Seb from chapter 2. I just can't get over it. [Check it out](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/49416168255/asherdashery-the-robo-ears-perk-and-he-gives).

The territory outside the city looks like…any other countryside, you suppose. It’s mostly hilly, open land, dotted with brush and a proliferation of scattered rocks and gullies. Very green. Lots of nature. You hate to keep resorting to Game examples but it kind of reminds you of Jake’s land. But less visually repetitive. Also not as mountainous. 

…Wow, you are terrible at this. You really need a broader pool of life experiences to draw analogies from.

In the end it took you and Seb only another half day of scavenging to prepare for this trip. Both your sylladexes are packed to bursting. (Whatever cross-dimensional forces make these kinds of decisions ensured that you and Li’l Seb are both equipped with your own copies of Dirk’s tech-hop fetch modus. You’ve given Seb the majority of the bladed items and explosives. It’s the only way he’ll learn.) 

You estimated the first of Sawtooth’s coordinates to be a solid day’s travel distant, so the two of you spent the second half of yesterday bored and antsy. You got in some strifing practice. You poked around the city some more and checked out the spider-attic. You had a run-in with a pack of football-sized beetle-rat abominations. (They seemed to want to eat your clothes. A flock of crows showed up to pick at the remains when you tossed them out into the street, so you’re hopeful some of these weirder lifeforms will at least turn out to be edible.) The big white monster thing and its various giant monster buddies had vanished from the streets, a fact which you found more ominous than auspicious. In all you were glad to get the hell out of there and exchange one unknown for another.

Seb’s been bouncing all over the place, running off in every direction and walking probably five steps for every one of yours. You’re not sure if you should be worried that he’s going to wear himself out or that he’ll wear you out. At least he seems to be keeping himself entertained. This is helpful because right now all your attention is required for a new project: learning to walk and code at the same time. It also means you can trip over your own feet for the fifth time with at least the possibility that Seb will be elsewhere when you faceplant. 

You’re still trying to trace back the connection to Sawtooth and Squarewave. The old channel may be fried, but that doesn’t negate the possibility of establishing a new one. Assuming you can find any functioning data connections at all. Then there’s the issue of the half dozen mystery functions buried in your glasses’ programming. They’re all callbacks to hidden system files stored on a device you don’t have access to. You’re beginning to suspect that that device is your brain. You are maybe just a little bit freaked out about this.

Seb pops up in front of you and you just about trip over him. You flail around and manage to right yourself. Like a boss.

“Look.” He’s got a scorpion by the long, whiptail stinger, and he holds it up for your appraisal.

You appraise it. “Seb, if that things stings you I am going to laugh and laugh unless it’s deadly in which case I’ll just carve ‘I told you so’ on your tombstone.”

Seb rolls his eyes. Well, you can’t actually see his eyes behind the shades and his face is the usual expressionless blank, but you assume that’s what’s happening from the aura of scorn radiating your way. He flips the creature up, snags it out of the air with lazy precision, gives you another Look, and then bends down with exaggerated care to let it scuttle away into some foliage.

Smartass. “I thought scorpions only came out at night.”

Seb shrugs. “It was under some rocks.”

“You’re gonna lose a hand, li’l bro.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says dismissively, then does a conversational 180—“Sawtooth and Squarewave?”

You don’t quite wince. “No luck. It seems to be shaping up to be a long-term project. Long-term side project since we’ve got this sweet mystery treasure map to follow up on. Don’t know where we’re going, why we need to, or what’s at the end, yes, this sounds like the best adventure, thank you so much, Sawtooth, I love working blind. Mad props, yo. You know, for a guy that’s a fucking virtuoso with words he sure is a terse son-of-a-bitch. Would it—” You break off, realizing Seb’s halted several strides back. His body’s tense and his robo-rabbit-ears are straight up like exclamation points, swiveling slightly back and forth like he’s trying to catch a noise.

Your sword finds your hand. “’sup?”

His brows draw slightly together as he concentrates. "I—there's something—“ His head is turning now, seeking. His chin dips. “—under!” And he’s launched himself forward, tackling you aside even as something emerges from the earth where you were standing. Several somethings. More than several Why do you keep getting attacked in packs?

You and Seb have found your feet, taking the high ground on an outcropping of rocks. The earth is turning over in patches all through about a fifteen foot radius below you, limbs shooting up out of the topsoil, seeming frustrated not to find anything within reach. The figures that clamber up out of the ground are vaguely humanoid. Their flesh is black and wet like an open wound, clotted with earth. They look like worn down clay men, like lumps of meat long since rotted to homogeneity, gaping maws the only recognizable features. You remember your jokes about zombie hordes back in the abandoned city. You’ve got to get, like, karmic couples’ counseling or something; this is really getting to be a problem.

You perform some quick calculations. Not good. “Break for it. Keep to the rocks.”

Seb takes off like a rocket board, flashing along a ridge of rock, over a gap, up along another ridge, and you're close on his heels. Too close. You're almost certain he could leave you in the dust—the kid is _fast_ —but he’s barely outpacing you. Just enough distance ahead to mark out the best course over the rocks and earth. Little brat.

You’re not nearly coordinated enough to glance back over your shoulder—you’re watching every step and still only a smuppet’s nose away from a disastrous stumble—but from the meaty thumping noises behind you it’s pretty clear the zombies haven’t decided to stop and play canasta. The fact that they’re keeping up at all means they’re faster than you’d hoped, but still not fast enough; as long as they can’t track you and you can put some distance between—

Three steps ahead of you, Seb jerks, planting a foot and skidding on a heel just long enough to redirect his momentum into a sharp turn.

You don’t manage anything nearly so elegant. You don’t quite slam headlong into the zombie coming out of the ground ahead, but your ankle does something painful and goes out from under you as you try to stop-turn, and honestly you are so god-damned frustrated with yourself you could saw off both your legs just so they’d stop letting you down.

You manage to fall correctly, at least, tucking your chin to protect your head, rolling as your shoulder strikes rock to distribute the weight, gathering your feet back under you so you end up in a dazed crouch. (Your ankle is still throbbing but fuck it; you don’t coddle burnouts.) 

No time to run; you’ve stumbled straight into the enemy and burned up your lead besides. Seb’s doubled back to cut off the advancing horde, leaving the less numerous but more pressing problem to you. The half-buried zombie reaches for you with weird stumpy hands, and you flick your katana, slashing it across the throat. The flesh drags on your blade, weirdly solid, and the head lolls back, oozing rather than spraying a dark, sticky liquid. There’s a brief moment of stillness, and then one grasping hand closes on your blade, heedless of the edge, and nearly wrenches it from your startled fingers. You jerk your arm, sending digits flying.

Right. Zombie.

You hack one more time, removing the head entirely (not that that seems to accomplish much) and back away from the blindly shambling torso, spinning to join Seb. He’s engaged with three zombies, the fastest of your pursuers, and you plunge in beside him, hacking and slashing. For once the advantage is yours—Seb’s quick and darting and knows how and where to apply the edge of a blade for maximum cutting efficiency, but there’s not much room for technical skill in this crush, and the brute force of height and weight give you the edge in hammering the on-rushers back. Which is good, because within minutes you’re surrounded and grossly out-numbered.

Everything is chaos. Fingers grip and tear at you, teeth close bruisingly on your upper arm. Seb’s at your back, and the two of you are a spinning carousel of sharp edges and pointy anime shades. You strike out almost randomly, knocking your assailants back with sweeping blows, slicing in to do what disabling damage you can, whirling to let Seb take advantage of the gap and throw your own force into driving back the opponents on the opposite side. 

The zombies (what even are these things; where did they come from; did the powers that be just happen to have a pile of horror movie tropes lying around and decide to pop them into this universe?) don’t seem to feel pain or even notice the damage you deal unless it interferes with their ability to get from point A from point B, point B being zombie teeth in your throat. Laws of biology, no; laws of physics, yes. There’s a lot of partially limbless undead corpses stumbling about now, but they stumble with a kind of relentless determination, no matter how you hack at them. Except for the part where you’re about to die any minute it feels more like chopping wood than fighting. You don’t need a sword you need a god-damned chainsaw.

You’re trying not to think about how easily you could slip, how one little screw up is all it would take to bring this whole dog and pony show to a calamitous end, acrobats and clowns screaming, Ferris wheel in flames, ring leader crying into his hat, no refunds, and everybody headed to the glue factory. Worrying about fucking up is the surest way to make it come true, but it’s like trying not to think about magical pink ponies while watching children's TV. You are all too aware of the other party with a stake in this, and you’re trying not to think about him either.

If Seb dies it will be your fuck-up and your fault. Because you couldn’t keep up and he came back for you. (That guilt trip you took him on about maybe getting you killed? This is your guilt intergalactic starship cruise: Boldly feeling like a shitheel where no A.I. has felt like a shitheel before.)

Focus—focus. You’ve got zombies to Cuisinart. Seb makes a sharp, startled pain noise behind you and about 96% of your attention redirects. The remaining 4% barely keeps a zombie off your throat as it lunges. Focus. Oh shit, shit, shit, there’s too goddamn many.

BAM. A noise like a clap of thunder and the zombie in front of you topples backwards as if shoved by an invisible hand. An invisible hand that leaves two inch entry wounds.

BAMBAMBAM. The thunderclaps are sounding in rapid succession now. The zombies don’t go down, but they fall back, and it gets you the breathing room to knock them back further and remove a few more limbs. You hear voices shouting, cries of direction and encouragement swallowed up in the adrenaline-pounding battle concentration in your head. It’s back to hack-and-slash now, the pressure of the fight leaching off as more and more of the zombies become twitching heaps on the ground. The gunshots have ceased now, and as you and Seb get down to the pure arm and leg work of making sure a dozen or so disabled ground-zombies stay disabled, other people join you, a handful of men and women busily dismembering corpses like it’s the cast of Dexter and everyone’s got a serial killer discount coupon and money to burn. 

You decide that things are well enough in hand—for whatever reason that may be—that you can take a breather. You don’t quite fall down, but it’s close. Instead you wind up leaning on your sword, swallowing air and shoving sweaty bangs back off your forehead. You look over to Seb (you don’t have to look for him; he’s been like a brand at your back this whole fight). He’s flopped down on the ground, stray zombie parts kicked out of range, knees drawn up and arms cradled up near his head mostly hiding his face. One hand is loose on his battle stained katana. He looks completely wiped, but it’s hard to read more than that.

“You okay, li’l bro?”

“mh.” It’s a tiny noise. As assents go it’s somehow not very reassuring.

You look him over more carefully. He’s scuffed up and dirty and there’s three clawed streaks of red staining one sleeve but he seems to be in one piece. “…Good deal.”

“Are you folks okay? Any serious injuries?”

You glance up to find one of your rescuers standing at your shoulder, an older human male with scruffy greying hair standing out against dark skin, a short beard, and a very bloody axe. Well, sticky axe. Whatever that zombie goop is. Hey, wow, adult humans, in the flesh. Weird. “It seems we’re fine. Thanks for your help.” 

Your eyes go back to Seb. You don’t think he’s hurt, but you’re not all together sure he’s fine. In fact, from the careful, brittle way he’s hanging on to himself, his ears pressed flat to his hood, you’re starting to think he’s in the grips of some kind of anxiety attack. He seems to be looking at the red smears of blood on his hands, and you’re not sure what that’s all about since you know he’s been in serious fights before. You move to position yourself a little more between him and the strangers.

“We saw the dust.” The man shakes his head. “Didn’t seem right to stand aside. And it’s better for everyone to weed out these creatures when the opportunity arises.”

A pair of women and the remaining three men have come up to join you. They stand a little closer than you’d prefer, but you hold your ground, meeting their frankly curious stares with a level gaze of your own. Oh look, you found your poker face. Or maybe that’s just your Stranger-Danger face. Whatever. Good shades. Best shield. 

One of the women, a tall, rangy type with long blonde hair going to silver, leans on a long rifle and shows teeth in a grin. “I haven’t seen anyone going head to head with a patch of the undead in years. And _that_ guy wound up in about seventeen pieces. Didn’t anyone ever tell you you’re supposed to pick the deaders off from a distance, kid?”

You stare at her for a long moment, vaguely nonplussed. “There’s a 97% probability that that is the first time anyone has ever given me zombie-slaying advice.” The woman laughs, a loud whooping noise like you’re the funniest thing since polyester. She reminds you a little of Roxy. Whoops, still not thinking about that shit, quick, change the subject. “You…get a lot of that type around here?”

“The heinous broods of the undead crawl from the sands at sunrise to feast on the light and the living.” The man who makes that particular pronouncement has a slightly wild-eyed, fervent look to him, as well as a wiry mass of brown hair that looks like it has never known the love of a brush. His companions seem to take his manner for granted so you decide not to make a big deal of the fact that they have a crazy person in their midst.

“We’ve mostly rooted them out around here,” says bearded guy—your original conversational partner--in a more reasonable tone. “This patch probably migrated in out of the deserts west of here. The folks down that way actually plant their dead in the ground, the bloody idiots. They might as well be farming undead. You ever get out that way you take my advice and travel at night. Hell, the way things are going these days you might do better traveling at night in any regards.”

The second woman spits neatly on the ground. She’s closer to your age, tiny and dark-haired, with a lovely pair of blades and a severe set of scars. “Trolls at night.”

That catches your attention. Damn but having other people around makes for useful exposition. Since your previous knowledge base was zero, you estimate that you now know about infinity times as much about this world as you did before talking to them. Plus in the past five minutes you’ve almost doubled the number of humans you’ve talked to in your life.

Bearded guy shrugs. "Trolls can be reasoned with."

“Ha! Maybe in theory,” laughing blonde interjects, flashing that toothy grin again. “Doesn’t mean they’re reasonable.”

Bearded guy looks amused, but doesn’t comment further. “I’m Clay,” he offers, turning back to you. He extends a hand and there’s an uncomfortable sort of moment when you just stare at him, stare at his hand, and stare at him some more, while he sort of hangs there expectant and increasingly awkward. He recovers the situation with something like grace, turning the gesture into a sweeping indication of his companions. “--and this is Jesse, Tris, Chau, Drew, and Dion.” They’re all looking at you a bit oddly now, but, surprise, you don’t give a shit. “Will you give us your name, stranger? Where do you come from?”

…and there’s a pair of loaded questions. In at least one lifetime your name was Dirk, but that’s never belonged to you. You have a product description (“Auto-Responder”) and a nickname (“AR”) and a joke of a name you sort of gave yourself one time (“Hal”). You have no idea where you came from or where you are now. Their faces are starting to cloud with suspicion, though, so you figure it’s about time to pony up and do your part to fulfill the social contract. There's only one name that you’re absolutely certain about. “…Strider.” You nod over your shoulder, where Seb’s still getting himself together. “He’s Sebastian.” Seb doesn’t look up, but he lifts two fingers in a victory V, acknowledging the introduction. You hope that means whatever’s going on with him is passing. You’re torn between wanting to chase these people away so you can figure out what’s up with Seb and wanting to pin them down and grill them for the next, oh, week or so. “We came from east of here.” Strictly speaking, this is true. If you consider only the past 48 hours or so. “We’re looking for some friends of ours.”

Clay’s looking past you, and the traces of suspicion have softened into sympathy. “Poor mite. He fought well, from what I saw.”

You find yourself feeling vaguely ruffled about the way he talks over Seb like he’s not right there, but you suppose most adults don’t really talk to children. (Maybe? This is another place where your knowledge is mostly theoretical.) “Yeah, Seb knows his shit.”

“Your little brother, you said?”

“Yeah, he’s—“ You find yourself stopped, mouth frozen in mid-word, as that catches up with you. It’s a little like being hit with a train going Mach 8. “—my li’l bro,” you finish awkwardly, voice kind of strangled. Hoarse. Your eyes flicker back to Seb. You don’t know what you’re feeling. You don’t know what’s showing on your face. You think it might be blank.

“It’s good you have each other,” Clay says, but you’re not really paying attention.

Seb’s looking back at you, finally drawn out of himself. His face is as solemn and unreadable as always behind the shades, but his arms have uncurled. His gunmetal grey bunny ears untuck, tilting towards you.

“Holy shit, _Clay!_ ” 

You both startle at the exclamation, bristling like spooked hawks, katanas coming up. Seb flashes to his feet.

The blonde woman—Tris—is dragging Clay back by his arm, and the other people are backing up, fanned out in alarm. “He’s a fucking cy!”

They're looking past you, and you very much do not like the expressions developing on their faces. You very much do not like those expressions directed towards Seb. You take a step to put yourself more directly between him and the increasingly hostile group, two of which now have guns drawn, although not quite pointed at either of you. Yet. Behind you, you’re aware of Seb sliding cautiously sideways to get you back out of the line of fire. You hiss out a breath of annoyance. Little brat.

The scene falls into a tableau. You consider the guns and blades ranged before you, the closed, wary expressions. They look like people suddenly confronted by a rat in their pantry. Or maybe more like a rattlesnake. Your lips press into a thin line. “It seems you all need some practice on how to carry out a rescue. For future reference, aiming weapons at little kids is almost never part of the process and, incidentally, is frowned upon across most human cultures.”

That makes a few of them look a little uncomfortable, if not actually abashed. There’s some awkward shuffling and lowering of weapons. Blonde-haired Tris raises her rifle muzzle towards the sky. It’s hard to miss the way the weapons all stay ready-to-hand, though, or how they’re all still maintaining a careful, uncomfortable distance.

“That’s not a little kid,” says the little dark-haired woman levelly. She doesn’t even sound aggressive, just coldly certain. The scars on her face are drawn into tight white lines. 

You make a show of turning to look at Seb and then turning back to the group, though you’re careful to keep them in your line of vision behind your shades. You raise one eyebrow.

The woman is unimpressed. “That’s a battery wearing a corpse.” Wow, you no longer feel bad that you can’t remember this dumb broad’s name.

Clay speaks up. He’s the only one who doesn’t have a weapon out, but his dark face is all business, now, the amiable friendliness vanished. “You. What are you?”

You feel you lips curl back. “I don’t know, bro,” you say in your flattest monotone, although it’s probably belied by the expression you can’t keep off your face. “If Seb’s kawaii little robo-ears got you all this worked up I don’t think you’re ready to handle this shit. You did help us out though, so guess I can throw you a freebie. Maybe try hanging onto something.” Keeping your katana’s line of motion free, you reach up with your other hand and brush your hair back where it’s falling loose and sweat-limp over your temple. Your fingers graze the innocuous ovoid of metal and circuitry embedded just above your ear. You hear a collective hiss of indrawn breaths. “Whoops, did I just blow your tiny human minds? My bad.”

Clay spreads his hands, showing them empty. “There’s no need to take a tone. We’re not looking to start anything.”

That’s almost breathtakingly offensive. “Glad to hear it.”

“They shouldn’t be here.” Oh boy, it’s fervent crazy man. “They’re rogues. They’re anathema. They will bring the eyes of the three empires upon us.”

“Now, Drew, they’re travelers.” Clay’s voice is mild, soothing, but his eyes on you and Seb don’t look like disagreement. “I’m sure they’ll be moving right on.”

“But you’ve made us feel so welcome,” you deadpan. “How can we bear to be parted so soon? The hospitality is overwhelming; we may swoon.”

Clay folds his arms, still doing unamused serious face. “We’ve done our part for you. I hope you’ll respect that and not cause any trouble.”

You’re suddenly choking on an overwhelming tide of resentment and bitterness. Your mouth feels like you’ve been gnawing on zombies. You don’t want to be near these people anymore. “Nah.” You slip your katana away and look around, turn, reorienting yourself. You’d lost your direction somewhere during the fight. “C’mon, Seb, let’s book.” He’s instantly beside you, still silent as a ghost. 

The certainty of your acquiescence seems to soften Clay. He looks faintly apologetic. “You’ll want to wash those bites out with alcohol. It can’t infect the living, but you might feel a bit sick for a few hours this afternoon.”

Tris speaks up, actually flashing a grin. “Also try not to die in the next day or so, ‘cause the spores’ll still be in your system and then we’d have more deaders to clean up.”

You return her an empty thumbs up ‘thank you’, and don’t think about how she still reminds you of Roxy, and don’t try to calculate the odds you and Seb could take them all down. You’ve learned what you can here. You’ve both made it through another life-or-death encounter and you’ll have a better idea how to proceed in the future.

You don’t look back at the little group of humans as you head off, following Sawtooth’s virtual trail. Seb’s a shadow at your side.

You know what matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sun-zombies are canon. Just saying.


	5. (May it never leave you) to sleep in the storm

You press on hard through the remainder of the afternoon, both to put some ground between you and that nasty little encounter and to make up time. You don’t work on your shades, and Seb sticks close to your side, ears up, alert for further trouble. Seb’s quiet—silent, actually—which wouldn’t bother you so much, except with him playing lookout he’s also stopped running ahead and getting into everything, and generally being a bundle of energetic curiosity, and you don’t know what’s going on between those metal ears of his. 

You’re prepared for the second group of zombies, and Seb and you take off running before the first creepy hands have broken through the topsoil. The extra distance makes the difference, and the two of you keep well out of range and pitch cherry bombs behind you until the creatures give up the pursuit. You manage not to disgrace yourself this time.

You’re both flagging by the time the sun’s dropping down on the horizon and you close in on the first of your waypoints a la Sawtooth’s mystery map coordinates. It turns out to be a ramshackle building tucked away in a little valley, and the two of you drag through a quick but systematic sweep of the area before settling in for the evening. It’s some kind of abandoned shrine thing. The figures depicted in crumbling mosaics don’t look like any religion you’re familiar with. They kind of look like lemurs. Or goats. Goat-lemurs. You wonder if they’re meant to be the gods or the worshippers. The building’s got a couple of walls down and a wicked draft, but at least there’s a roof and it’s moderately defensible. What is it with this place and abandoned buildings, anyway? 

“Seb, c’mere and let me see your arm.” Not looking up, you fish around in the pile of supplies you’ve laid out and come up with a bottle of what you think is vodka. Or possibly paint thinner. Probably vodka. Dumping some on a cloth you wrinkle your nose at the smell and press it to the bite mark on your forearm. Ow bloody ow fucking hell. That stings. Why are human bodies such utter tools? Always bitching about every little thing. Hissing through your teeth you wipe blood and grit from your arm until the ring of bruised and broken flesh bleeds clean. You splash some more vodka on your arm and over your scratches for good measure. After a few minutes the burning sensation starts to fade and you unclench your teeth and smooth out the muscles of your jaw.

You look up and find Seb barely inches away, watching. You manage to contain the startle reflex to a blink of the eyes. That won’t show behind your shades anyway. He’s got the torn-up hoodie off, down to his blue undershirt, and without the hood his tousle of messy blond hair makes him look especially young. Seb’s posture is both is tense and intent, his ears curved forwards, his weight light on the balls of his feet, his whole body still. Definitely something going on in that head. You set the bottle aside, and turn fully to face him. “Let’s see.”

There’s a microscopic hesitation, and then he thrusts his arm out, like you’ve just dared him to a game of chicken and seriously harshed on his street cred. He’s not as knocked about as you, but he’s got a good assortment of scuffs and bruises, as well as three deep scores down the soft flesh of his upper arm that look less like scratches and more like he’s been winged by a zombie garden hoe. You take his wrist, turning his arm carefully back and forth to examine the wound, and check that the muscle hasn’t been affected. It’s stopped bleeding on its own, so it probably doesn’t need stitches. “Not too shabby,” you tell him. “This the worst of it?”

There’s a miniscule little up-down twitch of his head.

Hmm. You reach for the vodka, manage to wet another cloth one-handed. Under your other hand you feel his muscles grow tense. The details finally click into place. It shouldn’t be this complicated for you to remember Seb _started out as robot_. From there everything else is simple logical extrapolation.

“Looks like you’re a properly blooded warrior now. Got your first battle wounds and everything. Props, li’l dude.” You keep your voice easy, bantering. You don’t want to make light of the situation but you don’t want to come off as condescending either. (This is, admittedly, not one of your strong points.) Thinking back you’re pretty sure this was Seb’s first ever encounter with that wonderful human disease called pain. Psychologically the middle of battle’s a less than ideal time to have your first brush with the fragility of the human condition.

“Too bad you won’t get a sweet-ass scar to show off. Scars are bitchtits. Dirk had a collection; I don’t know if you remember. They were all from training anyway, so that shit probably doesn’t count.” Seb’s definitely paying attention to you now, muscles relaxing as he follows the easy patter of your words. You hold up your vodka-cloth. “This is going to feel kind of cold and burn-y, like all your nerves are going off for about thirty seconds. Then it will start to fade, and within a few minutes it will feel about the same as before. The cold’s a side effect of the rapid evaporation, and the stinging is related to the disinfectant properties.”

You keep talking, rambling about nerve receptors and immune responses and the functional role of pain while you carefully clean and dress the wound. Seb tenses up again as the alcohol goes on, but he doesn’t get that panicky-around-the-edges stillness. If throwing words at a problem is your default strategy, at least it seems to be an effective one. When you finish wrapping up the cuts (“—because I know you’ll be out rolling around in the dust like a chinchilla the second my back is turned; you are like a dirt magnet, kid, seriously, a little decorum maybe—”) you consider your bite-mark and decide it’s too minor to fuss over further.

…Damn, but you’ve got to start pulling your own weight. You’re like some complete tight-ass square with a pimpin’ new ride, all fumbling with the gears and worried about dinging the paint instead of getting shit done. You also smell like a distillery. You can’t even draw a comparison to Roxy because she might drink the stuff but she wouldn’t spill it everywhere—even on her worst days that girl had an uncanny kind of…well, ‘grace’ doesn’t really fit. ‘Poise’ would be closer. Finesse. 

Goddamnit brain, do you have to hack your own head to get this subject closed? Because you will figure out how to do that.

With a grimace of distaste you peel off your fingerless gloves. They’re squelchy with vodka and traces of blood, and you hope this pair isn’t ruined. Something glitters, catching your eye and halting you mid-motion. Inlaid across the surface of your palms, like a fine silvery spiderweb sunk just beneath the skin, is a lattice of circuitry. There are fucking circuits in your palms. Circuits. In your palms. Why are there circuits in your palms?

You are staring at your hands and you do not know what the fuck is going on with you or this body anymore. You are not quite human; you are not AI; you have programming that you did not code and that you cannot see. You’d like to say you’re not flipping off the handle over this, but in fact right at this moment your brain is essentially an endless goto loop of handle-flipping.

Seb takes a peek over your shoulder. “Cool.”

You take a deep breath.

“What does it do?”

~*~

Three hours later, you’re not any closer to figuring out what your new palm-ware is good for, except, presumably, really high-tech handjobs. Not that you could shake your bunny-shadow long enough to introduce the equipment to the equipment. Or that you’re even thinking about that. Or that you’re wondering about the fact that that whole topic has always been kind of figurative and intellectual to you and although presumably you have hormones now, hey, actually, what is that over there, it’s a subject change. 

After a thorough inspection, you’re confident that the palm-ware is the last of your body’s more obvious technical surprises. At least as far as visibly apparent ones. You’ve got an itching desire to try opening up your skull and see if you can’t pry some answers out, but you’re clamping down on that pretty hard. No impetuous amateur field brain surgery for you. The interface above your ear is as far as you’re going in that direction. 

Seb’s got something going on with his legs; no lacework of circuitry for him, but in addition to the robo-ears he’s got metallic interfaces at his knees and ankles, flat and smooth, and connecting to who-knows-what under the skin. It’s kind of dawning on you that Seb’s probably not just Strider-flashstep-fast. More like inhumanly fast. (You remember the fear and discomfort of the group of humans you encountered earlier today, and your lips thin into a knife-slice line.)

That avenue of thought leads into a round of timed sprints, exercises, and hand-to-hand training. Tonight, when you’re not so single-mindedly focused on your own physical hurdles, you can actually begin to map the borders of Seb’s abilities. By the time you finish your cool-down and settle down in comfortable exhaustion for evening chowtime your mind is full of calculations. He’s good—technically skilled and very, very fast and more than capable of knocking you on your ass in your current condition. But he doesn’t know how to push himself; he’s operating within defined parameters, not challenging his limits. Bots might not be able to grow, but he’s not a bot anymore and you can see the potential there, just waiting to be unlocked. You’ve got a vision of what he could become, and it’s dazzling, fascinating, like your very best ideas, you want to chase it down and drag it into reality. 

You can hear a little nagging voice in your head, and it sounds like Jake, complaining to you about Dirk (always Dirk), and it’s saying things like ‘pushy,’ and ‘overbearing,’ and ‘just a bit much, y’know?’ You’re aware you get too invested, that you never know where to draw the line, how to interact with people without drawing accusations of manipulation. You should…probably back off. Bring it down a notch. Right?

Shit, you don’t know what you’re doing anyway. You are the worst possible person for this. It’s like, oh, his alter-ego is the Destroyer of Souls? Put this guy in charge of a small child, stat. In what universe will that not end up with everything in flames?

You’ve been staring off into space too long. Seb reaches over from where he’s been mechanically working through his portion (he eats like it’s an unwanted field assignment) and bops you on the shoulder with a can of food. It drops into your lap. Your li’l bunny-bro tucks his hands around his own can and meets your gaze, shades-to-shades, cock-eared and faintly smug.

You roll your eyes and flip him the bird before appearifying a knife and setting to work on the lid. (And by appearifying you mean decaptchaloguing. But in a way that makes you look like a can-opening badass.) You look into the can. You have won: beans.

You glance back up in time to see Seb eat a spoonful of mayo. You realize for the first time that the kid is legit sitting there working his way through a _straight can of mayonnaise_. It seems he’s halfway through. Oh god you have failed as a responsible almost-adult. Your hand flashes out and you snatch the can away before you can even think about it. Seb looks from his empty hands, to you. His ears flatten out, distinctly aggrieved.

“That is a condiment, not a food item,” you tell him. He appears unimpressed by your finer distinctions, but you’re distracted. “Who the hell cans mayonnaise?” Actually, what the fuck, mayonnaise is an emulsion. You’re pretty sure it shouldn’t even be _possible_ to can it. Maybe if it was pressurized—but, no, the heat would still break down the eggs. Hmn.

Seb pokes you with his spoon. He looks completely exasperated. Since you’ve flipped straight from emotionally blackmailing him to eat over to yanking food right out of his hands it’s a reasonable grievance.

“Yeah, okay, food rules are weird. I’ll give you the nutrition lecture another day.” You rub a hand across your face, briefly raising your shades. “Short version: you have to eat chemicals in similar proportions to what your body needs to function. Mayo’s mostly just one thing so you don’t eat it by itself.”

He considers this biochemical inefficiency silently. It’s really impressive how well blank lenses and a blank face can convey disapproval. “Lame,” he proclaims, finally. You track the brief blur of his movement, and a second later he’s settling down to work on your can of beans, apparently content with this solution to the problem.

He’s left you with the mayo. You contemplate the can. “Dude, I’m not eating this.”

Seb looks at you over a spoonful of beans. Tucking the spoon in his mouth he leans over and tips half his can of beans into your mayo. Your dinner has evolved into bean-mayonnaise. Damn, where’s the B button when you need it. You should’ve equipped an everstone on that bitch. But you have to hand it to Seb: it seems you will certainly not be eating mayonnaise by itself.

“You are doing this on purpose, aren’t you.”

Seb contrives to look innocent in the least convincing manner possible.

“You are insolent and I regret helping build you.”

He bounces like this is a tremendous compliment. “Forfeit,” he sing-songs.

God this kid is awful. You feel kind of warm and fuzzy about it. “Fuck you, no way. I was doing you a favor. Next time I’m just gonna let you eat the whole can and suffer the consequences. Two words, li’l bro: explosive diarrhea. You will know suffering beyond robot ken. The day of reckoning is nigh and it will be a literal shitstorm apocalypse.”

“Wuss. Forfeit forfeit forfeit!”

“It seems you think repeating words over and over constitutes a valid counterargument.”

“Forfeit!”

As it turns out Seb’s got a pretty solid handle on _effective_ debate tactics, questionable sophistic merit notwithstanding. You wind up eating the bean-mayo monstrosity, topped off with some sort of CrockerCorp confection for good measure and extra insult. Your stomach hates you and Seb is insufferably smug and at some point you realize your mouth hurts from pressing flat the edges of a smile.

It’s kind of an okay evening.

~*~

Two things about night here. One, it is bright as fuck. There are like umpteen-billion moons—(Okay, there are four. That you’ve seen.)—and they’re bouncing light around like you’re the slutty orange beach girl with the tanning mirrors. Outdoors you don’t even really need the night vision abilities of your shades.

Two, you don’t know about night in general but this particular night has you in its black books, because the wind’s come up and your drafty temple is colder than a witch’s tits. (Oh shit, you are now thinking about Jake’s alter-grandma’s tits. Abandon analogy. All hands overboard. Yeah, never mind, you don’t actually give a fuck. The English-Harley lineage is comprised of straight up stone cold foxes. And, ta-dah, the extended low temperature metaphor has now come full circle. Moving along.)

It’s not any caliber of unbearable, life-threatening, arctic cold, nor even serious winter cold, just this slow, stifling discomfort that sinks down into you in a way you didn’t know a physical sensation could. You’re really hoping this is a fluke. Between the sun-zombies and the hostile humans you’ve already been giving serious consideration to switching over to nighttime travel. Now, with the weird, numbing not-pain of cold creeping down to your bones you’re nearly sold on the plan. 

Seb’s got his hoodie and he’s burrowed into a pile of blankets like a rabbit in a warren (or a robo-bunny in a stuffed cadaver) but you’re pretty sure he’s not sleeping. You’re sitting up working on your shades again, and despite your jacket and an honest-to-god hooded cloak that makes you feel like some kind of shitty lord-of-the-rings cosplayer you can feel the cold seeping slowly down through the layers like a different, more smothering kind of blanket. If you travelled at night at least you’d be moving.

You hate to burn a day hanging around in the middle of nowhere, though—not that you’re operating on any kind of schedule here since Mister Tall, Steely, and Mysterious didn’t feel the need to include a deadline in your marching orders. Still, you’re not comfortable pressing on between your scheduled stops when you don’t know anything about the territory you might be stopping in. Maybe you could just scout ahead some?

Two people is really not enough to keep a proper watch schedule. You managed to fall asleep on duty your first fucking night, barely crawled through your shift the second night, and tonight looks even less likely to supply a decent rest. 

You’ve underestimated the cloying power of exhaustion and the trouble is you can’t see anyway of fixing the problem without sacrificing more than you can afford strategically. In Game the players had all manner of babysitter-watchdogs: sprites and robots and consorts and exiles and, oh yes, a brilliant cyber-omniscient AI system that doubled as the sexiest eyewear around selflessly overseeing every minor detail of their lives. (True fact: being a pair of sunglasses makes the minutiae of other people’s lives pretty much intrinsically more absorbing than your own.) Here it’s just you and Seb, and if someone were to take a Twitter poll on which one of you best fills the role of babysitter you’re not super-confident that you’d beat out the little kid.

Damn but you wish you could get a chat connection working. You’re starting to suspect that the entire network (whatever that might constitute in this place) is down for the count and that means—shit. Sawtooth’s not the most reassuring guy, but you would pay an arm right now if you could have even the illusion of that watchful presence at your back. You’d even welcome Squarewave’s ridiculous raps. It seems you find his absence more disconcerting than you would have hypothesized. For as long as you can remember—as long as you’ve been who you are and even some of the time when you weren’t—you’ve had his rap-chatter popping up in your feed multiple times a day. The absence is deafening.

A blast of wind shudders through the temple, curling around the wall you’re using as a windbreak. You set your possibly unfixable shades beside you and blow on your hands, trying to chafe some extra functionality into them. It’s not that the temperature’s intolerable, it’s just…unpleasant in a way you suspect isn’t entirely physical. You don’t like the way the cold numbs your extremities: it’s as if your mind is disconnecting from your body, faulty signal, lost connection, impending shut down. You like even less the way exhaustion combines with the chill to press a foggy lassitude onto your mind. 

In an attempt to drive off cold and human weakness, you run through some stretches and isometric exercises. God but you’re tired, and it is so. fucking. _weird_. Sleep is stupid. This is stupid. 

You’re trying to stay awake and Seb is trying to sleep and you’re both some kind of human-robot-cyborg mix-ups in a mix-up mystery world where apparently everybody still thinks you’re suspiciously subhuman and the only other people you know are far away doing cryptic-terse-aloofness like always and oh yes apparently your emotions are now subjugated to your physical state which at the moment is cold-tired-bruised and so you are cold-tired-bruised and also irrationally miserable. You shove the heels of your hands into your eyes like you can push the sleep out of your head. Your breath huffs out in aggravation.

Dropping your hands, your eyes drift across the room and snag unexpectedly on another pair. Seb’s watching you silently from his pile, a tight curl of limbs and blankets. Definitely not asleep. His shades are off, so you’ve slammed headlong into small pair of eyes, weirdly like Dirk’s (and yours, you suppose) but both more open and less expressive. The moonlight washes out your color vision, the light-sensitive rods of your eyes less sensitive to color than the cones. His orange irises are a faint gleam of dark amber. It’s a brief glimpse only, because he ducks back into his blankets, hiding his face. His ears are poking out. God, kawaii you to death. It’s a good thing the li’l dude hasn’t worked out how to do this on purpose or he’d be insufferable.

You give it a few beats and then clear your throat. One eye peeks out again, then both. He meets your eyes directly, with the unblinking gaze of someone who’s never been taught it’s rude to stare. You’ve never been bothered much about social niceties so you stare right back. It feels a bit weird without the buffer of dark lenses, but there’s also something bracing about the directness, like the straight sharp line of a katana.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask. The low sound of your voice seems alien in the night air.

A twitch of a headshake answers you. “Mm-mn.”

“How’s your arm?”

“S’okay.”

“No shooting pains? It doesn’t feel hot?”

That earns you a sarcastic head tilt and an incredulous twitch of the ears. “Nothing feels hot.”

Heh. It’s a valid point. “You cold?” This turns out to be exactly the wrong thing to say. Seb’s eyes disappear as he hunkers down again.

“M’fine.”

Right. There’s two of you doing the stoic warrior routine. This should not surprise you in the least. Well, stoic has its place, but just at the moment it’s a nuisance interfering with your ability to identify and solve problems. Hm. 

Somehow Seb’s reluctance to admit weakness makes it easier to find your own voice. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in temperatures this low. Not that Dirk remembered anyway. Although one time a couple years back the power grid at the apartment got fucked up by a whale or something and it took three days to get it fixed. It was the middle of winter and there wasn’t any heat at night. Dirk did the silent-bitchy thing the whole time; it was hilarious. I rode him so hard about it.” You run your hands back through your hair, tugging on it where it’s falling into your face. You need to get some gel and spike it up out of the way. Your mouth does some weird twisty thing. “It seems I may have been a bit harsh. Maybe. There’s a slight probability I lacked the data to fairly assess the situation. Cold does all sorts of biologically unpleasant things to the human body.” 

Actually, you think Dirk was more pissed about his computer going offline and not having anyone to talk to for days but your lovely self. Well, you can sympathize with that, too. You’re kind of an asshole.

“Shivering is _uncomfortable_ ,” Seb bursts out, and then withdraws again into silent reserve. He physically mirrors the sentiment, huddling back deeper into the blankets like a lumpy turtle.

“Fuck. Is that what’s up?” No wonder he’s not asleep. You didn’t notice. You aren’t paying enough attention. He’s smaller, though, obviously he’ll lose heat faster. The same way he’ll need to eat more often, burn through calories faster, bleed out easier…

Who the hell decided little kids should have to play ultimate handicap mode? That seems completely bass-fucking-ackwards. The system is wack, yo.

There’s a simple, efficient solution to the problem. Textbook. If you’d had your shit together instead of flailing about like an angsty wiggler you’d already be on it. You drum your fingers once on the ground, then sit up a little straighter against the broken wall. “Kay. Drag those blankets over here, li’l dude. We’ll double up. Conserve body heat.”

Seb doesn’t say much, but he fumbles out of his little shelter, and shuffle-drags the little pile over beside you. He pulls up and stands there uncertainly, vibrating with repressed shivers, chin tucked down into his hood and one arm curled around him.

You lift up the edge of your blanket-cloak arrangement so he can fit in alongside you.

The look you get can only be described as exceedingly doubtful.

You narrow your eyes at him. One time you freaked out. One time. There is a difference between maintaining a well-defined sense of personal space and catering to some newly developed impractical touch-phobia. You flap the blanket meaningfully, pursing your lips against the chill as this sends what little heat you had built up scattering to the night. “It seems you are under the impression I am an insincere shithead. Just because this is true does not mean it’s not super rude to let on you think so. For shame, li’l bro. You will smother the fragile blossoms of my non-existent feelings.” You wave the blanket some more. “Also, I’m sure the night air is doing wonders for my constitution and putting hairs on my chest and fuck all but I’m not really trying to embrace the Spartan ethic over here. C’mon.” 

A moment’s hesitation longer, and then Seb darts in beside you in a quick, flash-step movement. You’re proud that you don’t flinch. Woo, physical mastery. Soon you may even walk across rooms without falling down. 

You grab blankets and pull them up around the two of you until you’ve got some sort of manageable barrier against the cold fashioned. It’s a Strider-burrito. Seb wiggles around, seeking a comfortable position, and finally settles tucked in along your side, against the wall. His head, still in that soft grey hood, presses into your shoulder, metal ears tucking flat.

It’s...tolerable. Seb’s a warm line of heat on your right side, soft cloth brushing your chin, the familiar smell of metal and oil. Your sword arm is free and he’s arranged himself so as not to hamper your movement in a crisis. You don’t feel inclined to any kind of dramatic handle-flipping meltdown.

The temperature improvement under the blankets is almost immediately noticeable. This burrito doubles as its own cozy little easy-bake oven. Against your side, the barely discernible thrum of Seb’s shivering slowly subsides. He makes a contented little sighing noise, and the tight coiled tension of his small frame softens out all at once, unwinding. A few minutes later his breathing has slipped into the regular patterns of sleep.

Holy shit. Well, now you’re sort of jealous and impressed. Maybe a little flattered? But only a miniscule amount since you’re pretty sure it was the warmth that downed him like a stunned lemming and there’s only so much vanity you can muster over your skills as a personal space heater and your dazzling accomplishment of having an endothermic metabolism. You can already feel your own body sending lazy ‘warm, sleep, now’ signals.

God you’re tired. Instead of the numb, disconnected exhaustion pounded into you by the cold, your tiredness now curls around you sensuously like a plush blanket. Your eyes squint closed as your face gives way to a massive yawn. Okay. You need to find something to keep your mind occupied before you slide into this plush hell.

Testing, you slide you free hand to the side, toward where you set your shades down. Seb’s ears twitch, tuning automatically to the movement, but he doesn’t rouse. His sleep is peaceful and undisturbed. You feel…like you maybe don’t want to poke this feeling, in case it comes apart in your hands. 

Maneuvering carefully, you pick up your shades and get back to work. Your li’l bro is a warm presence at your side. It’s kind of wonderful and mostly terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....So mayonnaise turns out to be [oddly fascinating](http://www.rural-revolution.com/2010/04/canning-mayonnaise.html) and [kind of sciencey](http://www.rural-revolution.com/2010/04/canning-mayonnaise.html?showComment=1272162017426#c8983865260920640445)? Things I did not think I'd learn writing this story.  
>  Thanks so much for reading! Comments and feedback are appreciated to a ridiculous degree.


	6. I am a man of many hats (although I never mastered anything)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god I hope this makes sense I had to work three extra hours and my brain is too fried to do the final round of edits.
> 
> ps this seems like a good time to thank Ducthulu once again for betaing. Good beta, best friend.

You need a guide. Sure you can just keep leap-frogging blindly from coordinate to coordinate, setting off into the mysterious unknown like a pair of rugged pioneers, heading out west, Oregon or bust, caulk that sucker and float it across the river, whoops there go the supplies. But you can’t plan ahead for what you don’t know and that means you run headlong and unprepared into to surprise!-zombie-time or random-humans-who-hate-you or, for example, a small settlement of who-the-fuck-knows but 94% probability they will also randomly hate you and your li’l bunny-bro. And then you have to figure out if you should go around said obstacle and take your chance on mystery door number two: possibly even bigger obstacles, or if you should pull some kind of homing pigeon schtick and just plow straight through like a steadfast but rather dim sentient guided missile. (Hint: not that last one.)

Anyway, while you’re confident that Sawtooth has your back and that whatever machinations he’s decided to unilaterally embroil you in are in what he perceives to be your best interests (thank you again so much you cryptic fuck) you also don’t expect him to coddle you through every little baby step. This isn’t a freaking trust exercise; you’re not required to close your eyes and fall backwards. In fact that would be extremely stupid, and you’re pretty sure you’d be disowned from fellow Striderdom for excessive brain-fail. 

So you need a guide. Which is why you’re going to go into this mystery-alignment town down below you and get one. As plans go it’s not your magnum opus. You generally prefer to have access to a lot more data and maybe a few extra petahertz of processing power in the design stage, but what the heck, you are a cyber-human mix track, you can handle this noise. Shit’s as handled as a handlebar mustache, and you’re the evil genius mastermind, twirling away with how fresh this plan is.

“This feels weird.”

“Weird-bad or weird-ha ha?” you ask absently, as you make another adjustment to the base of Seb’s bunny ears.

“Weird-weird,” he responds flatly, folding his arms and shifting his weight antsily.

“Still!” you tsk around a screwdriver, leaning after him to close up. Working on Seb is kind of like fixing the rocket board midflight. Only wobblier. “How’s your hearing?”

“Mn.” He makes a non-committal noise. “Weird.”

“Okay, Pat, I’d like to buy another adjective. How’s the volume?”

“S’okay. But I can’t target.”

“That’s expected. You use ear movements to pinpoint sounds. No movement, no bunny-sonar. It doesn’t hurt?”

“No, it’s just weird.”

“I feel that you’ve fully established that datapoint, yes. It has been polished to a fine sheen and is suitable for framing. I will place it over the mantel and cordon it off with velvet rope and charge people a penny each to view it. There, how’s that?” You tug his hood back up and step back to consider your work.

He cocks his head in a gesture you recognize, even unaccompanied by the usual sardonic ear-tilt. His bunny ears, disconnected from their motor protocols, stay tucked back flat and out of sight under the hood, hidden, but his body language is pure deadpan provocation. “Weird.” 

“There is a 92% probability that you’ll live. Besides, it’s just like one of Janey’s disguises.” That perks him up, and he tucks his hands behind his head, bouncing a little in place. His face is the usual blank slate, and you find yourself surprised how expressive he still is, even deprived of his repertoire of ear movements.

You reach out and poke his cheek, squishing it in to make a lopsided fish face until he leans away from you and bats at your hand. “Did you know you do all your expressions with gestures, li’l bro? Your face never moves.”

Seb twists his head to eye you sideways, and then lifts his spread hands to frame his face in dramatically overacted amazement.

“Smartass. Y’know, you look like a mime when you do that.”

“Mimes are the shit.”

“Hm. Upon extended analysis this is a valid statement.”

“I’m going to be a rad-ass ninja-mime.”

“I approve of this life goal and will support you in your path. Step one: shut your sass-trap.”

“No.” He tilts his head, and even without the twitch of ears you recognize the implied grin.

He…mugs, you realize. He’s like a signer deprived of one hand, making broader and more elaborate gestures with the other. The angle of his head, the posture of his body, everything is played up to convey his emotions. With Dirk as a template it ought to be mind-boggling, but actually it kind of makes sense. For most of his existence he couldn’t talk and had no moveable facial features. Of course he’s developed an extensive and fluent body language vocabulary. Striders got to get their ramble on. You’re fucking eloquent like that.

“I think you’re set. Gimme a tick to get my face on and we’ll go out on the town.” Oh no, you just missed the best ‘paint the town red’ creepy-ambiguous undertones opportunity. Sigh. Adieu, missed chance. You let your hair continue unspiked this morning, and now you pull on a baseball cap. The hat is apple red and possibly your coolest and most ironic salvage item yet. It also does an admirable job concealing your shiny headtech so long as you loosen the band and pull it down sufficiently. You check your gloves and then lace your fingers and work off your tension in a full body stretch. Congratulations, you can now pass as a human-ironic-douchebag (in other words, Dirk Strider) instead of a mechanized horrorterror. The perfect crime.

“All right, li’l dude, let’s go charm the locals with trinkets and stunning good looks.” You tug one final time at your cap, re-re-check the accessibility of your baby, ahem, sword in your strife deck and start down the slope towards the settlement. Seb falls into place at your side. He automatically takes up a position that gives you both full range of movement with your katanas, and you feel a little more of your tension ebb. This plan may be sketchy but you both know your shit. It’ll work out.

The settlement is comprised of a few dozen small buildings arrayed around a larger, fort-like stone structure. A rough fence with outward-facing spikes surrounds the buildings, but there are cultivated fields and pastures spreading out beyond it. The two-story fort-structure has that abandoned, patched-in quality you’re starting to recognize even if you still don’t know what it means, while the houses around it are more uniform. You interpret this as meaning they were constructed around the oddball building, perhaps by opportunists making use of a pre-existing structure to settle here. You’re pretty sure it’s a human village since it’s still light out and there are signs of activity. As you draw closer to the entrance (it’s not really solid enough to qualify as a gate), two figures straighten up and step out into the path to meet you.

“Keep your hood up,” you mutter.

Seb cuts a hand through the air dismissively. “Duh.”

The guards are human. They look more like regular villagers than guards, really, outfitted in a mixed bag of casual-practical clothes-through-the-ages and finely tooled leather bandoliers that look at least vaguely official. They’re armed with truncheons (some people will insist on bringing a stick to an anything fight) but one of them has a radio headset, so you figure they’re more of an alarm system than a first line of defense.

They look young—about your age—and kind of nervy and excited. Maybe visitors are rare. As you come up to the guards, Seb draws in close to you, and then steps half behind you, grabbing onto the edge of your jacket with one hand and clinging. You’re so surprised you glance completely away from the guards, lifting your arm to better peer at his face. Between shades and hood and the cover of your side he’s mostly obscured but you catch the slight mischievous tilt to his head. He’s playing shy for the humans. Clever bunny.

“Hey there,” the un-headsetted guard greets you, making an ‘aw, kitten’ face in Seb’s direction. She has curly brown hair tied back carelessly out of the way, and appears casual to friendly. The other guard, who looks like he could be her brother with his own mouse-brown curls, hangs back, talking quietly into his radio. “Did you come for the big event?”

You decide not to gamble on ignorance. “No, we’re just traveling through and wanted to stop and look for some supplies. Maybe talk to some people about hiring a guide. What’s the event?”

“For the prisoner! We captured a carapacian rogue stealing sheep, and it turns out he’s some terrible escaped spy from the armies of the Bone Empire. The Regent is sending a squadron for him tonight!” Her voice drops to a low urgent tone as she speaks, nervous and covering it with gossipy enthusiasm. “We’ve never had anyone official come here except the tax collectors. And it’ll be a real army division with a droid squad and maybe even an officer. I heard the Iron Sovereign himself signed the orders and they might execute the spy _on the spot_.” She says it like she’s whispering the gory but exciting ending to a scary story.

“I hope they’re still coming,” headset-guard puts in. “The network’s been down for days. What if we have to keep that thing around for another month? What if more come looking for him?”

“Oh, but I’m sure they’ll come. I mean, the hand of the Iron Empire wouldn’t be bothered about a network glitch, surely. Anyway, who would there be to bother us? We never get carapacians here.” 

“We got one. And if the Regent wants him, _somebody_ must be looking for him.”

They share an uncomfortable look. No-headset shakes off the silence and turns back to you, apparently deciding a change of subject is in order. “Bad luck about the guide, though. Skinner would normally be your best shot, but he’s down with a broken leg for at least the next month, I’d guess. He got hurt bringing in the carapace. You could try asking around the square.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.”

She straightens up and looks a bit more serious. “You’ve told us your business. Will you give us your name?” 

“…Dirk.” You paper your face in Dirk’s faint, almost-smile. Just another friendly human.

“And you, sweetheart?” The guards’ attention has turned to Seb, who’s still doing his precious shota darling impression. He ducks further behind your leg, peeking out with one dark lens. Not only is he doing a bang-up job of making sure nobody can catch a glimpse of metal ears, he is clearly charming the pants off the guards. The cautious rear-guard looks visibly warmer and talkative front-guard actually coos aloud. Against your back you can feel Seb vibrating with silent laughter.

“Junior,” you announce, deadpan. Seb jabs his finger into your kidney. You keep your face blank and serious.

“Well, he looks just like you,” Headset-less tells you, and you have to bite the inside of your cheek. “You be a good boy, Junior, or the bucketbots will scoop a little thing like you right up and carry you off!”

“Don’t tell the kid tales, Lara.”

“Shut up, I have a cousin up north and she says she’s seen one.”

“Right. And they come out at midnight and can only be appeased with an offering of blood, I’m sure.”

“I thought it was milk?”

“Why would a robot want milk?”

“I don’t know, maybe they’re thirsty! My cousin said it was milk!”

You have a creeping suspicion about the origins of this myth, and you press your knuckles across your lips until you regain control of your face. Damn, are these people just hideously misinformed about troll culture or do things work really differently in this ’verse? You clear your throat, interrupting the friendly bickering, and making them both jump and look sheepish.

The forward guard stands to attention, hands folded on her truncheon, looking formal again. “Thank you for your names. This village is called Lanstead. Be welcome, Dirk, Junior. Keep the peace.”

That has the sound of ritual, and there’s probably a formal response, but you don’t know it. You dip your chin in a somber nod. “Yes ma’am, it will be kept like a well-paid mistress. Rolling in diamonds and furs. A cozy little villa in Italy. Wine and roses for two every night.”

Two blank stares answer that.

“Peace is my bitch,” you assure them.

Confusion flickers across their faces, but they’ve apparently already got you slotted into safe, comfortable mental categories so they just nod at you in a blank, sociable fashion as you and Seb stroll into town. This plan is boss.

~*~

The village is small but buzzing with activity. It strikes your eyes oddly, an anachronistic mix of primitive and modern. There are cottages and farmer-types in rough work clothes and chickens running loose in the streets, but you also see a motorbike and a streetlight system and a scattering of handheld computers. The old-fashioned cottages have antennae on the roofs. 

There’s a sort of market going on in the center of town, outside the stone walls of the fort-type building, but you get the impression people are mostly using the cloak of commerce to gossip nervously with their neighbors. Considering they have a small, dark-shelled person staked out on display in a roped off area of courtyard tucked up along the fort you aren’t surprised the mood seems to be see-sawing wildly between excited festival and hushed funereal.

In truth, the people in this town are so distracted and wound up you’re pretty sure the only reason they pay you any mind at all is to have a new face to share stories with. As an out-of-towner you’ve been approached by a dozen people about possibly trading some supplies, and only two have seemed genuinely interested in anything beyond a new audience for their “omg! Carapacians!” stories. 

For the moment you’ve sought asylum at the edge of the crowd, stealing a few private minutes to breathe and try to fade into the wall. You were literally created for this exact purpose—deflecting and/or responding to annoyingly talkative people—which only goes to show that Dirk was not nearly as proficient a creator as he liked to pretend. Because you are literally really shitty at your purpose. 

You’re edgy and slightly overwhelmed and annoyed with yourself for being so and it’s put a cutting edge on your temper and your tongue. This does not promote your mission of seeking out goods and a guide, although it does add a certain backhanded flair to your conversation. You suspect you are going to be rather unpopular in this town when they have time to sit down and think over some of these exchanges.

You don’t _mean_ to poke at people. It’s just so easy. And kind of fulfilling, in the same way some people take satisfaction from a digestive tract full of carbohydrates and starch. You enjoy a warm bellyful of the discomfort of others. It may be empty calories but you just can’t resist.

Meanwhile, Seb keeps disappearing and turning up with random new shit. You suppose a few years as a robot bunny followed by a few days spent raiding empty buildings in an abandoned city has not inculcated him with a keen sense of personal property. It’s not even money or valuables mostly. Instead it appears to be any random shiny thing that catches his eye. A whistle. A jar of hot sauce. A single shoe. Six knives. He’s like an adorable, larcenous magpie.

“Someone’s going to notice you swiping their shit,” you warn him, as he pops up with his latest acquisition, your voice a nearly silent undertone you know those ears will pick up anyway, “and this looks like the kind of place that has draconian judicial policies. They have straight up got a prisoner chained to a post in the town fucking square. I’ll bet they cut off hands and everything. I’d laugh, but I think maybe I’m legally responsible for you? So these are my hands we’re talking about. It seems you’ve decided to gamble with my hands to promote your life of crime. Not cool, li’l bro.”

Glancing up from under his hood, Seb gives you a look very similar to the one he wore when you lectured him about the scorpion. Five percent ‘I know you’re messing with me,’ ninety-five percent ‘because what you are saying is utter horseshit.’ Yeah, you’re pretty much talking out of your ass. Kid’s hella fast. If career-thieving doesn’t work out for him he has definitely got a future in pizza delivery. 

Still. “People tend to notice when their shit goes missing. And we’re not from around here. They don’t have to catch you in the act to draw conclusions.” You frown at his latest acquisition. “Although what those conclusions might be I hesitate to venture. You could at least confine your kleptomaniacal hoarding tendencies to useful shit. As opposed to…what even is this shit?” 

You start flashing items out of his hands to admire the inanity up close. “Spatula. Rubber duck. Shaving cream. And this. Why even.” You pause for closer examination because it is just. so. stupid. “This is a giant foam novelty hand. Do you know what the probability of us needing a giant foam novelty hand is, Seb? It’s 0%. There is a 0% probability that any situation will ever require a giant foam novelty hand.” You wave it in his face before discreetly stuffing the lot into your jacket. Fuck captchaloguing it; your sylladex does not need this nonsense. You’re going to dump it in an alley when Seb’s not looking.

“I like it,” he asserts. “It’s cool.”

You narrow your eyes at him behind your shades, pressing your lips into a thin line. “It seems you have a glitch in your brain. You are incapable of making rational value judgments. If the fibers of my cardiac muscle were capable of simulating emotions I would no doubt be deeply saddened.”

He makes his further opinions evident via a whole-head eye roll before flashing away again in an afterblur of motion.

“Go play in the mud like a normal wiggler!” you call after him. And by after him you mean in no particular direction at all because who the fuck knows. Probably next time he’ll turn up with the Statue of Liberty or something. Oh well.

You feel the twitchy sensation of eyes on you and you look around to meet the curious faces of a little trio of human villagers, paused at the edge of the busy crowd. Whoops, your voice may have wandered into the broadly audible threshold. It seems you have acquired an audience. You direct blank lenses and a blank face in their direction, staring until they start to look uncomfortable. “Kids.”

There’s a little relieved clamor of laughter. Kids, everybody agrees, and goes about their business. A man with salt-and-pepper hair at a stand of vegetables meets your eyes and smiles. “I have one that age.”

“Really?” you ask interestedly. “About what age would you say that is?” 

“I—“ he trails off with the look of someone completely thrown, before apparently deciding this is another joke. He chuckles, uncertain but game. You cut him some slack, and move on, tossing off a casual wave of the hand that could be interpreted as friendly.

Yep, you blend.

You brave the crowd again, cutting across the square towards the roped off area where the carapacian is chained. You haven’t really gotten a look, and you’re curious. You suppose you have at least this much uncouth voyeurism in common with the bulk of the humans. 

Moving among the villagers without being jostled and bumped is like a very simple flashstep drill, and if you focus on it as a training exercise you don’t have to feel overwhelmed by the sheer…aliveness you’re surrounded by. There are more humans in this space than the entire number of beings you have spoken to in the entirety of your previous existence. They speak out loud, and they can touch you, and there’s no way to simply block them on pesterchum or interact and observe from a comfortable remove. You kind of hate them all for existing, and for being human, and for being the wrong humans, and for reminding you that you aren’t.

But hey, they don’t know that. Good thing you have this awesome fucking hat so you can play-pretend at being a real person.

…Right.

You fix your attention on your movements, weaving and side-stepping in brief, subtle movements that just happen to keep you an arm’s length from passersby.

This is probably why all your conversations seem to end with people wandering away looking uncomfortable or confused. You start out with good intentions and best behavior, doing your trained-monkey human dance, and six sentences in you’re dropping in the computer syntax, slipping in little hints and barbs, yanking their chains just to watch the suspicion bloom and flicker in their eyes and then drop a few more lines to turn it around on them, leave them questioning their own perceptions. 

Gaslighting 101. You are the sensei; class is in. Time to get schooled, boys and girls.

You fetch up at the rope barriers separating the market square from a half-circle courtyard of bricks inset in the fort-building’s outer walls. A wooden post has been erected at the center, dwarfing the small figure huddling at its base. You’re not the only person candidly staring, but most of the humans are keeping a few meters clear of the ropes, busily maintaining the pretense of disinterest and ‘oh yes I just happened to have a pressing need for beets this evening how about you?’ commercial interest.

The carapacian is black shelled and clothed in some kind of cloth strips, banded around and around to create a garment. It’s hard to judge in that huddle but you think he’s rather small, maybe a head or so taller than Seb. Adult, though—you don’t think carapacians even have children. They’re grown in tubes or something.

He’s chained at the wrists, the length looping back around the post loosely enough to allow a minimal freedom of movement. He stares into the distance, acknowledging none of the watchers, crouched at the base of the stake in a way that looks both desolate and somehow steadfast, like a soldier keeping watch. You can’t say about the “spy” bit, but you could believe this guy was a combatant.

“They say when they found him he had the stolen sheep all lined up in front of this trussed up dire wolf, you know.”

Wow, suddenly conversation. The people in this village are like exposition ninjas. You walk across their line of sight and strife music starts playing and you cut scene to combat-mode, verbal diarrhea style. Your current assailant has cleverly cornered you against the roped off area. Can’t abscond!

“An honest-to-god dire wolf, and he had it hog-tied like a lamb,” your verbal accoster reiterates earnestly. He’s a portly man with arm muscles like a weight lifter and a yellow mustache. “And there the little monster-maker was with this wolf and near a dozen of our best sheep conducting some kind of strange ceremony.”

“Like a wedding?” you suggest.

“I—what? No. Like a, a ritual or dark rites, or who knows what those things get up to. They’re not human.” 

“So biology would indicate.” You cock your head. “It seems the impression of some of his captors was that he’d arrested the wolf and was conducting a trial. I believe that would make the sheep murder witnesses.”

“I don’t know how anyone could tell anything from all that clicky-clacky chatter,” the man complains. “They say trolls can communicate with ‘em, but I say I never heard of a troll that didn’t lie every word it wasn’t swearing, if it was bright enough to speak at all.” It’s like he’s been lifted straight from the pages of a Chick tract. You have crossed dimensions and rebooted universes and fought zombies to be here in this place talking to this particular specimen of humanity. You are oddly charmed. Meanwhile, your conversation partner is still expounding upon his rhetoric. “That creature stole our sheep and now it turns out he’s some kind of wanted criminal. You can’t tell me something illicit wasn’t going on there.”

You tip your head attentively, nodding along. “I defer to your expert opinion. You do seem extremely knowledgeable on the subject of illicit sheep-usages.” You pause just long enough that his brows to start to furrow. You are so proud of your poker face right now. Before he can parse out his misgivings you cut in with a new topic, redirecting his attention. It’s like dangling string in front of a cat. “I ran into some travelers that had an encounter with a cy around here.”

“A cy? Here? Surely not. We’re all good, peaceful citizens around here. And we hardly have any trouble from the other Empires. We’re much too far into the unclaimed lands. The Regent doesn’t have any cause to go sending that type our way.”

Your eyes narrow in thought, but it’s hidden behind your shades, so you don’t mind much. He’s the first person you’ve felt secure enough to broach this topic with. A mind this narrow couldn’t get a clue if you wedged it in with a sledgehammer. You probe a little further. “I’m not sure this one had anything to do with the Regent.”

“A _rogue_ cy? I don’t believe it.” 

Wow, is there an echo in here? 

“We haven’t had one of those come through in years. They say the armies hardly lose any these days—new technology and what-not. Dangerous meddling if you ask me.” 

You didn’t, but it’s clear he’s not the type to let that stop him. 

“There was, let’s see, a female a while back, tried to settle a few miles west of here, near Dunstead. Had cannons for arms, I heard, and these terrifying glowing eyes. There was a lot of argument about whether we ought to petition for a squad to come pick her up for being a public danger, but in the end she moved on. They never stay in one place long—restless as wraiths.”

“Imagine.”

“Oh, you hear people say they’re safe enough if you don’t bother them but if you ask me, you don’t keep a sword that turns in the hand or a dog that bites its master. They’re tools, built to serve the Iron Sovereign. You get one gone rogue and you have to figure it’s defective. No one reasonable would trust one. A certain type of person just loves to spin pretty tales like they’re just misunderstood people with some shiny tech attached, but they’re not human. They don’t think like humans. They aren’t born like humans. You can’t tell me something with chip for a brain is a person. Hello, there, lad, where did you come from?”

It takes a moment for the sense of that final statement to penetrate the red glare in your mind. You turn. Seb is standing a half-pace behind you, so silent and still you never noticed him arrive.

The human leans around you, beaming, and you feel a tug as Seb reaches up and latches a hand into the back of your jacket. Hard. “Now then, don’t be shy,” the man encourages crouching down to Seb’s level. “I think I have a copper caegar in my pocket for a likely lad. Here, go and by yourself a sweet.” He holds out his hand, offering the coin. Your jacket pulls tighter. Seb’s hand is a fist and his face is a particularly shut down type of blank.

“ _Thank_ you.” With a flick of motion you reach out and flash the coin out of the man’s hand, sliding completely between him and Seb while he’s still blinking in surprise at the empty space between his fingers. “You’ve been so kind and informative,” you add, flat-voiced. “You are a fine example of your species and an utter marvel to me.” You extend your hand as if to shake, and he reaches out on autopilot. Mid-motion you turn the gesture, dropping a mixed handful of Seb’s contraband coins into his palm. “Here, please, buy yourself something nice.”

He blinks and works his mouth silently in bewilderment, thrown off his conversational stride, eyes practically backlit with little “does not compute” error messages. Your poker face is gone, gone, gone, so you show him your teeth in what he could choose to interpret as smile. Assuming he has the social instincts of an impressionable sheep. “Bye now.” Side-stepping out around him you ensure that Seb is following and then march your unit out of there while the enemy is in disarray and before you do anything rash. You’re blaming adrenaline for your desire to make very bad choices.

Brain chemicals. Better scapegoats than Freud.

You yank frustratedly at the brim of your stupid fucking ironic red ball cap. Calm. You’re calm. Why should you care? Just keep reminding yourself that humans are really, really stupid. It’s what makes them entertaining.

Seb’s still silent but his face when you finally draw to a halt looks busy with thought rather than painfully still. “Can I have the copper caegar?” he asks.

You blink at him behind your shades, fishing the coin out. “Why?” 

His demeanor brightens into the not-a-smile smile, and there’s a trickster lilt to his voice when he answers you. He bounces on his toes. “I want to buy a sweet.”

Curious, you watch him dart purposefully into the bustle of the square. You try to track his movements, but then another would-be conversationalist ambushes you, and in the few minutes unresponsive staring it takes to get her to go away you lose him in the crowd. You scan for him to no avail, finally leaning back against an out of the way booth to wait. The vendor launches into his spiel, and you borrow a page from your double-reach around chat client auto-auto-responder and give him “yes,” “hmm,” and “interesting” at precisely 30 second intervals. Li’l Hal Jr. strikes again.

You spot your li’l bro just seconds before the first human erupts into a startled shout. He’s over the ropes and in the little quarantined courtyard, standing in front of the central wooden post, examining the prisoner with interest. The chained carapacian lifts his head, pale white eyes visible between strips of faded cloth. He manages to look both belligerent and apathetic. He doesn’t bother to rise to his feet.

“Hey, you! Kid, you can’t be in there!” A handful of bandoliered guards are closing in on the barricaded courtyard from several locations in the crowd now. The murmuring, shifting onlookers closer to the ropes look relieved.

At the center of the chaos, Seb ignores the rising uproar with easy complacence. He holds out a hand towards the carapacian, tipping his head in a wordless question, and you realize he’s offering a piece of candy. 

There’s a long moment of hesitation, in which the shouts of the guards seem hardly noticeable, and then the dark, cloth-wrapped figure extends an arm in a sort of unfolding movement, manacles clanking softly. Seb drops the candy into his hand and turns to face the small oncoming mob of alarmed humans, radiating smug self-satisfaction. Behind him, the carapacian vanishes his prize in an almost invisible flick of movement and a flash of sharp white teeth. He hunkers back down into his defensive/aggressive huddle, gleaming eyes narrowing to slits as he watches the spectacle.

It’s…okay it’s kind of pointless and really fucking stupid, and the whole gesture is a kind of obscure thumb to the nose that has almost certainly flown over the heads of 99% of the people here, but holy shit it’s fucking beautiful.

Your lips twitch into a smirk and the tight angry knot you’re pretending you don’t feel in your chest eases off somewhat.

The guards have made it over the ropes into the courtyard, fanning out to cover the prisoner and get between Seb and the carapacian like they think maybe the dude will suddenly gnaw through his chains and start rampaging around. There’s a lot of anxious babble and admonitions flying through the air, and your extremely self-satisfied, vaguely rebellious, and mostly unimpressed li’l bro is the target of a thorough dressing down as they try to hustle him out of there.

Then one of the guards closes a hand on Seb’s shoulder and your brain finally kicks into gear, playing out a detailed schematic of exactly how this is going to go down about five seconds too late for you to do anything about it. Thus you are completely unsurprised to see Seb, with a demeanor that seems puzzled but willing, step into the shoulder hold, reach a hand up to snag a collar, and then drop his shoulder and turn the guard’s weight into forward momentum. 

It’s a pretty good throw.

As the first guard rolls and crashes into the wall, Seb spins in place, facing the other guards with what you would have to classify as hopeful enthusiasm. And also a drawn katana. Everything gets a lot more chaotic, very rapidly.

Whoooops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	7. (Try not to mistake) what you have with what you hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting and just basically being wonderful! You make my day. <3  
> Here, have a chapter where I make AR talk about his FEELINGS. Also I guess there's fighting or whatever.

You do not succeed at deescalating the situation. To be fair, deescalating has never really been your forte. This escalator only goes one way, baby.

You still claim no responsibility whatsoever for this situation. No, the blame for this debacle can be laid entirely on poor conflict arbitration and ridiculous human fixations on social mores like ‘obey symbolic rope boundaries’ and ‘do not toss authority figures through the air.’

Still with the benefit of hindsight and in the interest of full disclosure, you can admit that your actions may have in several ways been below your usual caliber of strategy and foresight. For example, you neglected to take into account that whatever forbearance and reluctance to engage Seb’s age might earn him from the guards would be nullified by your own armed entry into the debacle. Also you probably should have tried to talk the situation down _before_ taking a swing at the two guards who got in your way. But you did use the flat of your katana. You can be reasonable. They’ll probably hardly have a concussion at all.

So now you and Seb are cornered in a walled courtyard, with a line of angry guards with truncheons between you and the square and a lot of flustered villagers swarming and shouting behind them. A few more self-possessed individuals seem to be calling for reinforcements on handheld devices. Plus a good 20% of those villagers are armed to the teeth. They’re not murderous zombies driven to devour you, and the guards at least haven’t drawn guns, but…welp. You’re not going anywhere without a fight. Maybe not then, either.

“Drop your weapons and surrender!”

No, that doesn’t seem like a good idea. Certain minor mechanical details might not stay under hat and hood in that scenario. These humans might not be trying to kill you just yet, but who knows how that data might alter the model? You’d probably wind up right back in this same situation but more hated and less armed. Gonna have to pass on that sweet deal.

“Eject your sylladexes and throw down your weapons!”

Facepalm. “Okay, no, which intellectual incompetent just said that? Have you people never heard of weaponized sylladexes?” Hell, that would even be pretty effective as an out if you were willing to go directly to bloody mayhem. You and Seb are carrying a lot of sharp objects. 

You keep on with the cutting commentary instead. “Yo, meat puppets, can we maybe get smarter people up front? I’m actually trying not to kill anyone here and since I feel this issue meets our mutual interests I would appreciate it if this could be more of a collaborative effort.” Tragically, they prove impenetrable to reason, even though an advanced system of your intelligence is, by definition, eminently reasonable. 

“You have ten seconds!” shouts a guard.

Thoughtful of them to give you a time frame for your tactical evaluation. And, oh shit, they’re actually doing a countdown; that’s just darling.

The frustrating thing is that the odds of getting you and Seb out of this scenario intact would improve by about 50% if you just started slicing and dicing. And if you don’t unequivocally hate them all, you at least resent the fuck out of these humans.

“…8!…7!”

It’s just… except for that one time you helped engineer the death/resurrection cycle of your other self you’ve so far managed not to translate resentment into any corpses. (And that beheading was totally arranged with his best interests in mind.) You’re not anxious to pop your homicidal massacre cherry—next thing you know you’d be high-tailing it around the multiverse in a pimpin’ green bathrobe, jaw-beaming innocent civilizations into powder. Still, now is a really inconvenient time to have a sudden attack of the ethics. 

This would be so much easier if they were actively trying to kill you.

“4!…3!…”

Okay, nope, bad A.I. Provoking them is not the answer.

Anyway, you already have a plan. It may seem convoluted to lesser intelligences, but it is clearly the most logical and proactive strategy, making the most efficient use of resources at hand. It may also have the side of effect of pissing off every human in town. It just feels right.

“…2!…1!”

BAM. Action. The guards charge in and you fly into motion. Step and turn and sweep with your sword, apply pressure here and use the momentum to flash back the way you came. For once it doesn’t matter that your intuitive control of this meat puppet is a fucking mess. You’ve had a full ten seconds to lay out every move in advance and nothing can touch you. The actions and reactions of each person in this courtyard are like an elaborate branching web in your mind, an infinite series of if/then statements. Seb’s even easier to predict, to rely on, he’s a straight cutting line sweeping through your mental diagram.

You batter down another onrush of guards, turn two steps and reach your target. Your katana slices forwards and you know exactly how force and angle will combine to sweep through wood and metal like they’re not even present. The chains go on the forward slash. The reverberations are still clanging up the bones of your arms as you take the wooden post in the back slash. 

Your hand’s gone numb and you can’t feel your grip on your katana but the delayed-effect slide and topple of the post is a thing of devastating ironic beauty. It slow-mo tumbles into the crowd, scattering guards. You are so anime right now. God damn.

In the aftermath, there’s a brief moment of stunned silence. The guards are frozen, the remnants of the crowd are stupefied, Seb is just hanging out chilling like ‘Oh, is this break time? Okay then,’ and the little carapacian is staring at his hands, a few inches of chain dangling from either manacle.

His head comes up, those white, saucer-round eyes slowly narrowing to slits. A heartbeat later he takes off, scrambling through the courtyard, and everything leaps back into motion. 

The guards chase, the carapacian scampers and dodges, and fully 75% of the people actually participating in this strife have completely forgotten you and Li’l Seb. There’s still the crowd in the adjoining square, but they’re pretty distracted, too, jumping and shouting directions. It feels like wacky carnival music should be playing. 

Your lips are definitely curved up in a smirk, but you pronounce it sufficiently coolkid and ironic, so whatever, maybe you’ll just save your poker face for special occasions or charity donations to extremely deserving orphanages or something. You yank the brim of the stupid red ball cap and go on smirking, condescending enough to merit your immediate promotion to Empress of Trollkind. Your only faint regret in this situation is for the carapacian, who it seems has taken the role of the whack-a-mole in this farce. But what the hell, you tossed him a freebie, time for that bird to fly or hit the window.

In fact, he does better than you imagine. As you’re vaulting back to where Seb’s tornadoing around the courtyard tangling up guards with the finest of rad moves, the carapacian dead ends against the curved wall of the central fort building. What you had taken for aimless panicky flight turns out to have been better calculated than you though. Seconds later he is halfway up the smooth stone wall, jabbing knife-tip fingers into mortar and climbing like a squirrel. A pointy, mummy-wrapped, renegade-ninja-squirrel who eels into a narrow window and vanishes.

Based on the reactions of the humans, this outcome is a Very Bad Thing. You still don’t know what the function of the fort-building is, but they quite evidently do not want escaped foreign criminal spies in it. If things were distracted chaos before they are in full-on panic mode now. Some of the guards and a lot of the crowd go running out around the walls, evidently heading for the entrance, while others appear to be trying to form a human pyramid to scale the wall.

This was not part of your plan. However, as in the hit lyrics of immortal pop music superstar Hillary Duff, “no battle plan survives contact with the enemy—whoa-whoa-whoa.” You are adaptable.

In the middle of this shit-hurricane, someone was bright enough to detail a small complement of guards to deal with you and Seb. Or maybe stupid enough. Seb seems to be having fun, anyway, flash-stepping in and out among the half dozen remaining fighters, never in the same place for more than two seconds, and generally running them ragged. This kid is literally the Energizer bunny. Dye him pink and get him a big fuckin’ drum because he don’t stop.

You almost hate to interrupt. Except for the part where you still need to get out of town in one piece. “Hey, li’l bro, time to jet.”

“’Kay.” Seb flashes up alongside you, stopping on a dime like a thrown dart vibrating in the bullseye. 

You both turn your attention to the six remaining guards. (Who are _still_ sticking to their truncheons. Do these people not believe in edges? Or projectiles? Really, you can respect someone who picks one favored weapon and stands by it. Except when that weapon is a glorified fucking stick.) “It seems we must be going. I can say with 99% certainty that it has been, in a literal and vernacular sense, real. Peace out.”

They stare at you.

You stare at them.

You’re not entirely clear whether you start running or they start chasing first. You pick up the remnants of the crowd as you cross the square and they mob you all the way to the edge of the village, where Seb gives a cheerful thumbs up to the startled gate guards. 

As you leave the main road and skedaddle into the countryside, Seb is silent beside you, but you’re pretty sure he’s laughing. You let your smirk quirk up another millimeter. The humans, falling behind, hurl threats and profanities after you, into the fading light.

~*~

Off the smooth streets and paved courtyards you slow down somewhat and start minding your footing like Mary fucking Poppins. No more pratfalls for you. You will get out the spoon and sugar and do a fanciful dance routine with the furniture if that’s what it takes. The two of you keep up a decent clip until the human settlement has fallen completely out of sight behind, then you flop down in a little rocky clearing to assess the situation.

You’re still riding high on leftover adrenaline and nerves, heartbeat taking its sweet time slowing down the tempo.

“Wow,” you muse aloud to Seb, while you both check over your swords and reorganize your inventories, “we just legit got _run out of town_. And it wasn’t even for being mechanical abominations of science. We earned it solely on the merits of our stunning personalities. I am so fuckin’ proud right now.”

Seb bounces happily on his rock, still revved up and gleeful. Something goes _bang!_ and spontaneously ejects from his sylladex, and he tumbles and dodges out of the way, popping up sheepishly from behind some cover a minute later. You raise one eyebrow.

Okay, so you may not have accomplished your goal in that you remain guide-less, only now with more people who hate you, but you did get some supplies and some intel, and you definitely wrecked some shit. They won’t be forgetting you or Seb anytime soon.

That’s… something.

The moons are up and the sun has slipped below the horizon and the air is just beginning to chill. At least you don’t have to worry about keeping a look out for day-zombies—instead you can explore the wonderful world of whatever crazy fuckery the nights here have to offer. You’re guessing whatever it is, it will want to kill you. 

Speaking of which… You leave your bladekind modus equipped, but set your katana to one side. “C’mere and let me fix your ears, li’l dude.”

Seb pops up beside you in a flash, drawing back his hood to present you a fluffy nest of white blonde hair and two paralyzed robo-bunny-ears. His urgency gives you a pang. You pull out some tools and lean in, setting to work on the reconnection process. You remember your casual dismissal of his misgivings earlier this afternoon, the way you shut down his fledgling complaints without even half a thought. You feel like an ass. God you are so bad at this.

The manic energy of the fight is leaving you, and it’s like a bright outer varnish being stripped away to reveal something dull and corroded beneath. Your mind is filling up again, a million little mental snapshots and audio clips, a multimedia remix of your afternoon in the human village overlaid with something tight and unhappy. You pause in your work to let Seb’s system run an internal check, and your hand lifts unconsciously to the brim of the stupid red ball cap, fingers clenching as you pull it off to look at it. You don’t remember why you thought wearing it would be amusing and ironic. More like lame and stifling. Fuck that noise.

All your life you’ve been trying to pass for human, you were _designed_ to imitate humanity, and now you’ve been shoved in a human body and you find you still don’t measure up to standard.

There’s a faint beep from the vicinity of Seb’s ears, and your hand opens automatically. Your eyes track the movement as the hat falls away, flopping on the ground in the dust like it’s nothing more than an object fashioned out of cheap cotton fibers, cardboard, and dye. Huh. You hesitate over your gloves, thinking of the circuitry in your palms, but leave them in place. Than you get back to work, repairing what you took apart.

“It seems to me…” you start, and then hesitate, a rare moment when you are completely thrown for words. There’s a certainty forming in your gut, hot and burning in a strange, physical way, but you’re not certain you want to trust it to speech yet.

Seb’s watching you out of the corner of his eye; from this angle you can catch a glimpse of bright sunset-amber behind the shades, and you are halfway behind him, fiddling with wires in his ears, opening up his head where you crippled him so you could fucking _blend_ , and you think maybe you owe it to him to wrap words around the anger in you.

“I think I went about this all wrong, li’l bro. I mean, undercover reconnaissance has its strategic value, but what do we need to be play-pretending at being human for? Why, cause they have a problem with us? Since when do Striders step into line for anyone? Since fucking never.”

The first ear connects, and twitches under your hand. Seb shakes his head like a bird coming out of a dust bath before resuming dutiful stillness. The ear perks and swivels towards you.

Too bad you’re out of words again. You search for something else to say, but all you are inside is leaden resentment, roiling anger, stubborn defiance and the childish desire to Make Them Pay. ‘Them’ being an ambiguous other. Those villagers. That band of travelers. A parade of people endlessly reminding you of what you are and what you aren’t and what you’ll never be. (Human.) You know you behaved recklessly and immaturely in that village, even before you helped Seb pick that fight (and who was supposed to be the mature, knowledgeable, responsible one?) but damn if it didn’t feel good.

The second ear reconnects. You close up and step back, still mired in ~feelings~. It’s really obnoxious. The occupation of picking apart your psyche palls when you can’t do it a step removed. Gaining a body is destroying your detachment. “That fight was a probably a mistake,” you admit, sighing out a breath.

Seb pulls his hood up and wriggles his ears experimentally. He turns dark lenses on you. “Did I mess up?”

“…Hm. Nah.” You sigh and flop over backwards onto a boulder, lacing your hands up into your hair and pulling slightly. Your fingers brush the hard lines of the skull tech over your ear. You want to remember how to be cool and aloof again. “You were just doing your thing. I maybe messed up.” You tap at the silvery module, tracing the way it interfaces with the arm of your shades. “Was pretty fucking rad, though. Think we left an impression.”

“I don’t like that place.”

“Nope.”

“Those people were stupid.”

“Humans. Fucking stupid.”

Seb’s silent for a while, considering this. After a few moments he says, “…Janey’s not stupid.”

It blindsides you; this whole body clench of regret. Pain. They’re gone; they’re not here; they left you; they forgot you. You’re sitting up, curling in on yourself defensively, lashing out with words before you even think. “Maybe, but we’re never going to fucking see any of them ever again so what the fuck does it even matter?”

Seb flinches.

You’re too caught up by anger to care. You don’t care about the way his ears tuck back, either, or the way his usually expressive posture goes stiff and guarded. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s the fucking truth. You think they even notice you’re gone?”

You push to your feet, grabbing your sword and striding angrily across the clearing. “They. Don’t. Care. So quit fucking harping on it.”

Seb’s frozen and silent, and you want him to stop looking like that, like you reached out and flipped a switch and shut him off, and you want him to hurt like you do, you want him to be angry, you want to hit him with words until he feels like you and you need to stop this _right fucking now_. You need to stop this thirty seconds ago.

You take a breath. You follow up with another breath. You put your sword away because that is really not a thing that should be in your hand right now and you make yourself keep breathing, slow and steady, counting them out, until the shakiness fades and the adrenaline surge backs down. Bodies and their physical-emotional feedback loops. Biology is like an elaborate yet unamusing prank. You’re expecting a bucket of fruit gushers and shaving cream to fall any minute now.

You turn your eyes toward where Seb is still standing frozen. You want to change the subject, ignore it, bury it and leave it for dead, but if you start cutting yourself that kind of slack you’ll probably hang yourself with it. You may be a complete shambles of a trainwreck but at least you can still look at yourself dead on and face consequences. You won’t flinch.

“I don’t care.” Seb startles the hell out of you by speaking first. You weren’t even sure he _could_ talk when he was upset. He speaks the way you move sometimes, when you have to think out every step because you can’t trust your body to get it right by instinct. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I still miss her.”

You’ve never seen him angry. He’s bristling all over, the tension of his muscles translating up his throat into a wavering unevenness backed by a faint vibrating rasp of a growl that sounds strange in his high, child voice. 

Turning to face him directly is remarkably difficult, but you do a lot of difficult things. “Seb,” you start, and make yourself continue. No flinching. “That was about me. I was talking about me. Not you. I’m sorry. I am aware that I have a problem and I am not demonstrating high emotional stability or rationality regarding this topic. I shouldn’t have spilled it all over you. You can feel however the hell you want.” You can’t time loop back and undo your mistakes, so instead you’re left once again to try to piece back together what you tore down. You don’t have a lot of practice at this.

You try for reassuring. “I’m sure they—Jane liked you; I’m sure she misses you.”

“I’m not _stupid._ ” He’s looking straight at you, laser-direct even with the shades, and it’s the flattest, most sardonic look you’ve seen from him yet. The resemblance to Dirk (and you?) is suddenly uncanny. He looks years older and still so small. “She doesn’t have to—I know I’m not—I wasn’t—” He visibly struggles for words to ideas he’s probably never had to consciously think about before, his hands knuckling into the sides of his head before his arms come down and he folds them across his chest, tucking his chin. “You’re still the same. I’m different. I—I’m—I—” His voice stutters out like his throat’s gone into complete lockdown. System failure. He grapples with his glitchy voicebox a few moments more and you can’t stand how frustrated he looks.

“No, I get you,” you say, feeling a strange, twisting discomfort. “You’ve covered a lot more ground than me since we tumbled through the looking glass. It’s not that you’re different—you’re _more_.” The concept he’s looking for is ‘self-aware.’ As a bot he’d had significantly higher cognition than a pet, hell, probably higher than most human children, not to mention a fairly kick-ass learning program, but he hadn’t achieved self-awareness like you or Sawtooth or even Squarewave. Not like now. You don’t know if he made it over the cusp on his own or if maybe being stuffed into a human costume jump-started him but he’s playing at a whole different level and you knew that.

You just didn’t really think about it. 

Didn’t want to think about the fact that for all your bitching about being left behind and forgotten you all did the _same fucking thing_ to Li’l Seb. Hell, bot-Seb got shut down and went missing for basically the entirety of in-Game time and nobody bothered about it until Sawtooth pulled that last-minute end run out of his ass.

Does it count that he wasn’t really a person yet?

To the humans, yes, that probably makes the difference. For you you’re not sure. You are intimately familiar with what it is to chase some arbitrary ever-shifting threshold of “real”-ness and never quite measure up. 

Seb’s still locked in silent, unreadable stare down mode, practically vibrating with frustration and tension.

“She should miss you,” is all you can think to say.

His hands clench up and his ears lay back and he shakes his head ferociously at you.

“No, wait, bear with me, li’l man. I’m not saying that she has to, or that you have to think she has to, or that she does or doesn’t, or that she…hang on, I’m gonna need to either back this sentence up or bust out the flow charts.” You pause, and you’re 95% sure he’s at least listening to you. Okay. Reboot, try again.

“Look, I’m just saying that however many shitty variables you add into the model the end result is still she’s missing out, whether she knows it or not. They all are. Scale of 1-10, would miss, you’re like an eleventy. One-of-a-kind, accept no substitutes, ecto-clone-sibs, or splinter-variants. You are the must-see event of the season, except in a way that makes you sound less like a circus freak show, because seriously, we are getting enough of that. That credit card is maxed.”

Seb stares mutely at you, visibly deflating inch by inch as you ramble. His posture loosens and his ears dip and he just looks small and lost and unhappy. This is obviously completely wrong because being a miserable bastard is your and Dirk’s territory and he should stop copping your style immediately. Your powers of wordplay and obscure metaphor are not working. You should. Do something. Or say something.

Feelings. Agh. Does not compute.

The déjà vu, glitch-in-the-matrix thing is, you’ve sort of tried to have this conversation before, that first night. Except then you couldn’t even admit to yourself what you were apologizing for, and Seb was hardly saying more than ‘yes noise’ and ‘no noise’ and ‘but why?’, and it’s fucking unreal how much everything has changed in just a few days.

You still have no idea what you’re doing, but you really want to figure it out. You’re a bright computer program. This should be achievable.

Blowing out a long breath, you edge over and settle gingerly on a boulder, giving both of you a little distance. The rock feels gritty and solid under the pads of your fingers. You figure you can’t make things worse by actually saying what’s in your head. Well, actually. Hell yes, you of all people certainly _can_ but Seb’s been pretty resilient to your fuck ups so far and you were created as a text-app. Words are kind of your go-to. And maybe this way you’ll stop spontaneous-combusting your issues all over him at random intervals, which is a douchebag move and also sounds vaguely indecent and you know what let’s just leave that over there and move along.

“You still not talking?” you ask him, carefully editing out any trace of “can’t” from that sentence.

His head moves in a minimal shake.

“You mind if I talk?”

His shoulders twitch in an apathetic shrug, but his head turns toward you and doesn’t shift.

You start poking around in your sylladex while you turn over how to start. Hair gel: surprising easy to make from scratch with the right supplies and a little lateral thinking. This idea’s been bouncing around in your head for a while, and now’s as good a time as any to whip up some primo haircare. It’s something to do with your hands anyway, add some remove, make everything a little less charged.

As you work, you start talking.

“Humans have difficulty conceptualizing non-traditional intelligences and states of being. My own cerebral framework is designed to replicate a human’s which sometimes limits my perceptions. That’s me admitting to being slow on the uptake, by the way; take that and treasure it ‘cause you only get one, li’l bro. Other side of the coin: my own situation necessarily obliges a non-standard definition of personhood.”

Seb doesn’t sit down, or even move from the spot, but he’s intent, focused on you. In the growing darkness you can see the transition as his attention turns back outward, misery gradually displaced by absorption, like he thinks there will be a test at the end or a grand reveal where it turns out the answer to life, the universe, and everything is 42. His attention adds a kind of unsettling weight to your words. It’s an odd cousin to the hungry way he listens to all your off-the-cuff lectures on random topics and prods you for more like he wants to understand everything all at once.

You desperately need to get this kid a library. Or at least a functioning internet connection.

“Sometimes I thought they got that, and sometimes it seems like the only human who really grasped that I was not just an elaborate technological echo chamber for their nonsensical feelings-drama was Dirk—and that interaction has always been a bit damaged. You know. Seeing as how we are the same fucking person and we are not particularly fond of ourselves. 

“Of course, other times it felt like Roxy was the only one who gave a shit, or Jake was the only one who didn’t think I was completely interchangeable with Dirk, or Jane was the only one who didn’t make an issue out of it at all. So I guess I don’t really know what I wanted from them.”

You consider the conditioning qualities of a jar of gun oil, and then put it aside, digging into your Batterwitch cache instead. Seb’s started moving around again, and you’re relieved to see him lose that fixed, frozen quality. He shifts restlessly around the clearing, perching momentarily on a nearby rock, crouching down to observe your work more closely, juggling a few pebbles one handed, his ears always swiveling to catch your words.

“And to be 100% on the level, I can’t claim that I never engaged in self-sabotage and self-destructive behavior when interacting with other members of the party. That is definitely a thing I did. At times. Or even frequently. It was more kind of a constant low-grade thing. Like herpes.”

Does Seb even know about herpes? Is there a sex talk looming in your future? Maybe you should make some puppets. Putting your gloves away, you squick your hands through a sticky mixture that you guess resembles hair gel and make the bold decision to put it in your hair. You smooth in a palmful, spiking your hair up and back into a familiar style, lifting it away from your face, focusing on that task so you can stay calm and level as you talk. This is about 50% effective.

“But even if I am a rad-ass brilliant cyber-intelligence I don’t have to be rational and logical all the time. I’m fucking pissed at them for how they treated me, and I’m pissed at me for doing the same thing to you, and I’m pissed at the fucking numbskulls we keep encountering for acting like whimpering incompetents and/or foaming-at-the-mouth ravers just because you and I have got some awesome metal bonus features.”

You tap your head tech in illustration with the nail of a sticky finger. With your hair up and out of the way, it’s kind of glaringly obvious. Point.

“So yeah. Conclusion: I’m an angry son-of-a-bitch and humans are fucking stupid. Sorry to drop that shocker on you. Also that latter part is most accurately classified as a personal opinion which I do not require other people to hold even if it is based on extensive surveillance and data analysis. And also Jake. And Dirk’s embarrassing would-be courtship of Jake. And Jane re: Jake. Basically anything to do with Jake is stupid. That’s not even opinion. That’s fact.”

Seb flicks an ear and crosses his arms, but it’s more playful than annoyed. You give him a smirk.

“But if you want to have completely lame non-evidence based opinions or whatever you are welcome to go ahead and believe that humans are made of gumdrops and unicorns and shit mathematical theorems. And… it’s not like I don’t get why you’d miss them.” 

Your voice is going kind of low and tense, betraying so much more than text on a screen ever would. Your bare hands clench in your gross sticky hair goop mixture, crushing your style. You smooth it back out, and focus on getting the last stray strands of hair swept up and in place the way you want them. Seb’s staring straight at you again.

“It’s not like I don’t—fuck.”

You should have gotten that shades-to-shades chat-client worked out. Text is better. Plus that would probably help Seb out with the talking thing. It would be a gesture of pure altruism and selflessness, really. You make yourself push on. “It’s not like I’m happy about the idea that I’ll probably never get the chance to sort any of this shit out for real now. That feels like absolute fucking shit and I hate it. I really really fucking hate it.”

You slap your hands down on the rock on either sides of you, and then blow out a breath. “But I’d really rather not get sucked into a morass of my mixed feelings and abandonment issues; you on the sidelines all standing there going, ‘Artax, c’mon, no, you’re sinking! Fight the sadness, Artax! You have to go on!’ So, yeah. Let’s pretend I’m a grown up capable of dealing with my own shit, kick that ball out of the park, and then get back to you and how I’m totally down with you feeling however you want to feel about this whole situation.”

You rub goop off your hands on the rock and roll the excess loose in sticky pellets between your palms. Cocking your head, you frame your new do with upheld hands. Circuits gleam on your bare palms. “How do I look? Think the humans will accept me as one of their own? Take me into the nest, feed me hacked up worms, snuggle up with the other baby chicks?” 

Since your Dirk-style updo sweeps carefully around the ovoid cybertech module set in you skull and leaves it gleaming unobscured in the moonlight instead of hidden under a fall of hair this question could probably be classified as insincere. This is the polar opposite of a stupid red hat.

Seb steps up in front of you, arms folded. He looks you over pointedly and then very carefully raises one eyebrow.

Your lips stretch into the widest, most delighted smirk you’ve ever felt your face make. But hell, you have absolutely no remorse because it’s his first try at a facial expression and it’s deadpan, hella sarcastic, and full on precious and you seriously love this kid.

“Brat. Don’t get sassy with me.” You reach out and grab his hood and yank ‘til he has to duck his head or fall over. Tucking his head under your arm, you dig your fist into his hood between his ears in a maneuver colloquially known to humans as a ‘noogie.’ Seb flails and kicks you in the ankle, but it’s clear he’s mostly humoring you. 

When you let him go he rocks back on his heels and looks up with that not-a-smile smile going on, tugging his hoodie straight, all cheerful demeanor again. Human bonding ritual: successful. You can’t quite ditch the smirk. Oh well. The vagaries of your facial muscles are a strange and unexplored kingdom that will no doubt be a source of wonder and awe for generations to follow. “You want to do your hair, too? You could ditch the hood.”

His head tilts slightly in thought, then he shakes a no, burying his arms in the front pocket of the grey hoodie possessively. “Mm-mn.”

“Suit yourself.” And it sounds like his voice is coming back. Excellent. You captchalogue your odds and ends and stand up again, brushing off. “Shit, we still got hells of hours to walk tonight. Are you as beat as me?”

Seb shrugs and makes an equivocal gesture. Guess he doesn’t have a lot of experience to judge by.

“I feel like I’ve been running laps in a rock polisher. Right. Let’s ollie out. We’ve been hanging around here too long; we’re still too close to that human village for comfort. Maybe we can find somewhere better than this to stop for dinner.”

You’re hardly to the edge of the little rocky clearing when Seb does that full body, hunting-dog-on-point jerk that means he’s heard something. Two flash-steps and he’s up on the tallest rock in the area, gazing off into the distance, like an alarmed meerkat. His ears are straight up and his body is a wire-tight line. His sword is in his hand. Your fingers tighten on the hilt of your own blade barely an instant behind him.

“Something’s coming.”

That’s all the warning you get. They come in _fast._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *edit 2/15*: Adorable [AR & Seb art](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/111515675345/myexplodingcat-i-need-to-remember-to-turn-f-lux) by [myexplodingcat](http://myexplodingcat.tumblr.com)!


	8. It's the fall (before the climb)

It’s a good thing you’ve been ambushed by groups about a half dozen times since you got to this universe. Otherwise you might start thinking you were unlikeable or something. But nope, here’s yet another hostile mob, anxious to throw down with you and jump on your katana. The flavor of the evening is robotic. Shit.

There’s eight of them, tall silvery humanoid things humming on rocket boots and wrist propulsers something like Sawtooth’s. They’re not nearly so finely built, pared down and simplified into graceless sharp edges and blunt lines that suggest a human shape more than define it. They zoomed in like bats out of hell, but you get a lot of time to scope the scenery, because once they surround you and Seb, forming a ring of metal bodies, they come to a dead halt, hovering motionless a foot off the ground like silver spikes hammered into thin air.

And with a faint _whirr click_ your sylladex locks down. Some kind jamming field. Double shit. You tighten your hand, feeling the reassuring weight of a hilt in your still ungloved palm, and think really, really appreciative thoughts about Seb’s ears and their forewarnings.

“Unidentified civilian suspects,” The voice is metallic and toneless, total old school ‘50s sci-fi robot. It comes from every direction at once, the bots apparently speaking in unison like it’s a pre-programmed response or they’re some kind of hive mind. “Dirk. and. Junior.” They stagger haltingly through the names you gave the human gate guards almost exactly like a fill-in-the-blank voicemail recording. “By the authority of the Iron Sovereign you are requested and required to surrender and face judgment. Failure to surrender is a capital crime and will result in execution. Thank you, your cooperation is appreciated.”

Wow, that took a bizarre Stepford turn at the end. At least they want to arrest and/or kill you _politely_. You half-lift one hand—aiming for non-confrontational and probably missing by the length of the blade in your other hand—as you consider the situation. If corners have been cut in presentation, it’s clear to you the same can’t be said for martial ability. They’re hella fast, they have numerical advantage and aerial dominance, and the right arm of every one of them looks like some kind of plasma rifle. On your side you’ve got Seb, you, and a sword apiece.

Tactically, this position could be described as _disadvantageous_. It is so disadvantaged it probably requires government intervention. This situation needs food stamps and shares a one bedroom tenement apartment with seven other people. Invading-Russia-in-Winter lives down the hall and keeps blocking up all the toilets. You are in so much shit.

You stall for time. “It seems you think we’ve committed some crime. What exactly is this about?”

“You are suspected in the release of a wanted war criminal scheduled for collection,” that resonant, multi-directional voice informs you. They don’t have moving mouths, but their yellow-white eyes seem to glow brighter when they speak. “Interference with government entities is a capital crime and will result in execution. You are requested and required to surrender and face judgment. Further delay in complying with this order will be considered resistance and will result in execution. Thank you, your cooperation is appreciated.”

Shit again. Infinite shit loop. That doesn’t sound like a good outcome any way you jump. Where’s the love? Robot unity, rah rah.

(The part of you that can’t look away from a good disaster kind of wants to ask their opinion on cy, but that’s the sort of button-pushing impulse that got you in this bind in the first place. If they somehow haven’t noticed that detail, far be it from you to bring out the clue bat. Especially when they’d probably use it to bludgeon you to death. Politely.)

Your little ‘show up the humans’ self-indulgent impulse drama in the village seems less clever and amusing with every second. It’s not like you didn’t know that your actions have consequences. It’s just that, in the past, the physical outcomes of your shit-stirring have auto-shunted to Dirk to deal with. It’s what he got for being the one with the body, plus you figure the challenge was good for him. Kept him sharp.

You’re so far from sharp you might as well be a spoon, and pawning off the bulk of the consequences on Seb not only makes you feel like a complete tool but drives home what an utter fuck up you are. You’re supposed to be the responsible party here.

You don’t think these bots are going to give you a 10 second count to work out your issues. You spread your hands out pacifically, holding your sword away from your body. “I see. It seems surrender is the most logical choice.” It is; it really is; it’s the only choice. Play it cool, bide your time, watch for an opportunity.

But.

“You’re better prepared and we’re clearly outnumbered.” You don’t dare be reckless when you know you’re going to drag Seb along with you.

But.

Still keeping your arms a non-threatening distance from your body, you crouch and lay your sword on the ground. Behind you, you’re aware of Seb, dutifully following your lead. Trusting you.

The bots’ eyes flicker and glow. “Thank you. Your cooperation is appreciated. Please wait to be restrained. Your documentation will be processed shortly.”

You really should play it safe.

But.

You’re not going to do that, are you?

You stand up, hands slightly raised, palms out by your shoulders. You take a few steps forward, towards the bot most directly in front of you, and the circle shifts, keeping you at the center. The bot at your back is practically on top of Seb and your weapons. More importantly, every plasma rifle has shifted to point at you.

“Please wait patiently. We are having system difficulties and apologize for the delay. Failure to wait patiently is a capital crime which will result in execution.”

You raise your hands a little more and try to look as accommodating and non-threatening as possible. You only have to dodge once. Just once. You can do once. “I don’t think we could outrun you. But I do think we may be more maneuverable. That’ll have to do. Hold on a moment, I’ve forgotten a grenade in my jacket. Lemme get that for you.” And you reach almost casually into your coat, still projecting calm and helpful as hard as you can.

Everything seems infinitely slowed, milliseconds ticking by, as your hand moves by fragments, the eyes of the bots go flicker-flicker-flicker, stances shift slightly, your fingers start to close.

The faint warning whine of plasma rifle charge-fire cycles signals final jeopardy.

You flash into full speed, whipping your hand out of your jacket, lofting the can of shaving cream in the general direction of the bots to your right, at the same time as you duck and roll left, pulling out every stop you can on your speed, banging the shit out of your shoulder and skull in the process. The crackle-snap of plasma fire sizzles the air beside you as half the bots fire on the spot you just vacated. It’s overlaid by a secondary explosion, a sort of wet, puffing boom, as the other half fire on the shaving cream.

_szzkzthFWOOMP._

There is suddenly an uneven coating of white on every surface in the area. A lot of it is on fire. And there’s the shriek and ring of metal slicing through metal as Seb takes full advantage of the chaos. The bots are still deploying their plasma rifles at everything that moves but it’s gone from neat 1-2 volleys to completely scattered and, shall you say, ‘distacted’ bursts as they cope with clogged sensors, flaming parts, and an armed and dangerous bunny-boy. Your sylladexes are accessible again, the bots’ interference disabled either by damage or broken formation.

You toss out some shuriken and cherry bombs to add to the bedlam, but mostly keep up with the suave roll and scramble, cutting back and forth through the cover of the rocks, because scattered plasma fire is still fucking plasma fire and that thing you told yourself about only needing to dodge once was a total lie. Now you need to dodge a whole bunch of times and also everything is slippery as fuck and lightly flaming. It’s total manbro bukkake theater up in here. And have you mentioned on fire.

“Bro!”

At Seb’s call you pull out of a roll into a crouch in time to snag your sword from the air. Just the weight of it against your palm settles your nerves about 200%, like a piece of you snapping into place. You are meant to have a sword in your hand.

You are also meant to die, apparently, or at least the bots mean you to. You find your feet only to have them immediately slide out from under you, and two beams of plasma arc over your head from different directions. It’s a wonder they aren’t hitting each other in this mess, but if they can’t quite keep track of you and Seb they apparently know exactly where every other bot will be at any given moment. Hive mind.

You’re doing enough rolling that you could probably qualify to be a Thanksgiving side dish if someone topped you with gravy, but that’s fine, you are at one with the fine art of culinary ninjitsu, and you roll some more, striking out with your blade at the boots of a low hovering robot to bring it crashing to the ground. As it corkscrews to a stop across rock and earth a metal hand catches your ankle, clamping down like a vice, dragging you with it.

It is not a fun ride. For one thing, you get entirely too well acquainted with the physical properties of kinetic friction.

You grit your teeth, skin scraped and singed, eyes and nose burning with acrid black smoke, and haul yourself up, struggling to achieve the leverage to cut yourself free. Your sword glances fruitlessly off your new ankle shackle even as the bot brings its plasma rifle around to bear on you. You turn the blade on the rebound and shear through base of the rifle. Seconds later Seb is a darting shadow across your line of vision, sword flashing through the confining arm in one quick movement, and you both turn and break just as about a half dozen plasma bolts converge on the location.

The downed bot explodes.

Heat and noise and percussive force hit you like an invisible full body slap, knocking you flat. Seb’s still close enough and light enough that you see him thrown head-over-heels through the air, tumbling against a rocky outcrop to lie still. For a moment your mind is a sheer blank void, white space and muted noises and a continual ringing in your ears and then Seb rolls over and staggers dazedly to his feet and your body remembers how to breathe.

Which is good because that’s all the time you get before you’re back to desperate dodge and weave, trying to make the best use of the scattered cover and your quicker turning times to avoid a plasma bolt to the face.

Seb’s struggling. He’s keeping ahead of the blasts, but only barely, far from his usual grace and facility in motion. His ears are tucked flat to his head, and by the queasy way he stumbles and sways you guess the force of the explosion has impaired his inner ear, throwing off his balance. You’re not even sure if Dirk could compensate for that, and Seb certainly doesn’t have the experience to. You can barely manage this flesh-puppet unimpaired.

You coil and leap, tackling one of the bots from behind as it targets Seb, knocking it off course. Your heart is hammering in your ears and the outside world still sounds like it’s been muffled in cotton. Your breath catches in an ash-seared throat as your lungs labor to get enough oxygen to overtaxed muscles. Everything aches or burns or stings or lances with pain. Hanging by one arm from the robot’s neck you curl at the waist to brace your boots on its back and launch yourself at another bot, sword swinging.

You feel like your body is a faulty tool or a soft-walled cage, a weight around your neck. You want the power to make everything come out right or the plausible blamelessness of lack of ability. You want not to be in-between. Tough luck, kid.

Your sword slices into the torso of your target and there’s a moment when everything seems bright and sharp inside your head, a lightning ‘on’ sensation like a circuit closing, and then you tumble free and nearly collapse on the ground. You feel like you tapped a nonstandard charge without a surge protector, and you almost wonder if you managed to electrocute yourself. Your arm is still resonating with the shock of metal meeting metal.

The bot, sliced neatly through the middle, spasms and collapses, opened torso sparking weakly in the flame lit night, lamplight eyes flickering out, and you don’t know if this means you’ve killed your first person or not. Something to work out later. You shove yourself to your feet, shaky and disoriented, only to immediately throw yourself down again, rolling on a bruised shoulder to avoid the bright sizzle of plasma fire. Almost half the bots are down and more damaged and you still can’t pause long enough to catch your breath.

Skidding into another series of dodges, you look around automatically for Seb, because apparently you will never learn to stay focused on your own fight no matter how many times you get blindsided. You spot him through smoke and sputtering flames ten meters away going head to head with one of the bots, his sword barely visible in a fierce flurry of slashes as he tries to break through the robot’s defenses. You also spot the bot behind and above him. Perhaps Seb’s too accustomed to relying on his ears or perhaps he discounted this bot as disabled. Its arm jerks and judders as it rises, but the plasma rifle is dead steady as it levels with its target’s undefended back.

You try to shout a warning, but he can’t hear you, you dumbass, because that’s what happens when extremely sensitive hearing is subjected to a robot exploding two feet away while saving your worthless hide. You’re charging forward, heedless of the other bots, as fast as you’ve ever pushed yourself. It’s still not enough, still too far. “Seb!”

You thought having a body would mean you could stop feeling powerless.

A fist-sized projectile squeals through the air on a curling trail of smoke and slams into the bot, knocking it back even as it fires. And by knocks back you mean it explodes. And by explodes you mean dramatic flash, wave of heat, giant bang, the full party package with lights and streamers and cake and surprise the present is an explosive warhead. That, or the misfire zipping by his head, gets Seb’s attention, and he starts to turn. It also sends his would be assailant fragmenting into a hundred pieces. A second later you plow into him, too much momentum to even consider a graceful collision, much less a halt, and you both go bowling head over heels over ears along the ground before ending sprawled in a tangled pileup.

There’s a half beat of pure startled silence. As one, you and Seb and all three remaining bots turn your attention towards the source of the explosion, following the smoke trail to a nearby ridge where a familiar cloth-wrapped figure has taken up a sniper’s vantage point on the field below. Also, somewhere he has gotten a hold of an honest-to-god rocket launcher.

It’s the little black carapacian prisoner you cut free on a whim while indulging your fit of vindictiveness back in the human village. With your track record you would have thought he’d turn out to be a horrible mass-murdering psychopath who feeds babies to kittens and would track you down later to add your ears to his collection of dead things. Not so much someone who would show up _deus ex machina_ style to save your life. Wow, it’s like suddenly not all of your actions lead inevitably to destruction and downfall, what even is this nonsense.

As you watch, he tosses his emptied weapon aside and pulls out an assault rifle, raising it to his shoulder and opening fire on the robots in a hail of bullets that ricochet madly everywhere. Okay, good, at least this is still bringing about mayhem and destruction, your world is right side up again. You duck back down, curling behind a rock, plastering yourself to the ground, and trying to shield your and Seb’s heads as much as possible. Chips of shattered boulder beat and slice at you wherever your clothes leave exposed skin.

The barrage peters off as the bots abandon you, spreading out and swooping in dizzy evasive maneuvers as they jet towards the lone gunman on the ridge. Damn. This window of opportunity isn’t going to last—better crash through it while you have the chance. You scoop Seb up in one arm and sprint after them. You think you hear a tinny chorus of “…we appreciate your cooperation…” but it’s difficult to tell over the gunfire and plasma blasts.

Since you’re not sweeping back and forth dodging bullets you gain rapidly. Seb twists in your hold, matter-of-factly sticking an elbow in your ribs so that you drop him to run beside you. He’s still got his ears tucked protectively back, but the hearing issue doesn’t seem to be hindering his balance anymore. He covers ground even more efficiently than you, darting repeatedly ahead and then slowing for you to catch up. You know why you don’t want to let him out of reach, but you’re kind of offended that he apparently returns the sentiment.

The two of you draw level with the rearmost bot, fanning out automatically to come at it in a pincer formation, when the harsh clatter of gunfire cuts out. On the ridge ahead, the carapacian pitches aside another assault rifle, draws a handgun, and fires six rounds in quick succession. When that gun is empty as well he pauses just long enough to give it a slitty-eyed look of utter dissatisfaction before hurling it towards an oncoming bot. It bounces off the metal with a hollow clang and the carapacian turns on his heel to flee along the ridge, the deceptively fast movements of his limbs somehow both jerky and fluid, insectile.

From the other side of your quarry, Seb’s head tilts briefly to you in question, and you grit your teeth but flip your free hand dismissively. He leaves you to it, bolting full speed up the slope at an angle to intercept the other two bots on their way after your now unarmed guardian. You start a wary, testing circle around your own target, trying to keep an eye on that plasma rifle and your footing and Seb’s progress all at the same time. Since you only have two eyes and use bifocal vision, this is not your most brilliant or successful endeavor. New plan: kill this guy fast, then go kill everything else that gets in your way. There’s strength in simplicity.

The bot fires at you, close range, and you sidestep, cutting your dodge close enough to singe your skin on the crackle-heat of the bolt, using the opening to flash in with your sword. The bot blocks, and blocks again, turning your blade on its armored arms with every blow, driving you back until you nearly stumble on loose earth. You spin out rapid calculations, plotting force and angle and outcome, wanting to finish this fast. You have a pretty good guess how it’s structured on the inside, both from your knowledge of robots and your glimpse earlier, and you think you know where to direct a strike to do critical damage with minimum required force.

You fall back slightly to wait your opening, trying not to worry about the fact that Seb has caught up the carapacian and engaged the other bots. Focus. If you can just strike— _there!_ You lance forward, sword slipping through a gap in the defending arms to stab straight into the chest, a launched spear driving for the vulnerability you’re certain is there, like a beating heart.

A metal fist clips your sword arm, jarring your aim, and rather than drive home in the core, your blade glances and slides along wires and circuitry.

It’s not at all like being electrocuted. It’s like snapping into place and splintering apart all at once.

You connect. You…expand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger x3 combobob.
> 
> Now seems like a good time to mention that while the next chapter is the last of this story, it is not the end of this series. The next story picks up a few weeks after this one. :) Most of the world-building and additional characters got shunted over there...because they were bogging down the Strider bonding time, dangit.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I love hearing from y'all.


	9. When I am ten feet tall (I’ve never felt much smaller)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm full of warm fuzzies today. I love you guys. I want to hug you all. If you ever get bored you should come talk to me on [tumblr](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com).  
> Here have a chapter!

Your mind is a blank bright space, filled with red light, silent but for the rush of air and the pulse-thrum of blood. At the same time you are a million million lines of numbers and code and programming. You are an organic humanoid being clinging bare-handed to the hilt of the sword you just stabbed through a robot. You are a complex artificial intelligence program capable of inhabiting and interfacing with every bit of mechanical space available to it. 

You think you just figured out why you have circuits in your palms.

Somewhere, both in, and not in, the core of yourself, you activate dormant subroutines, uncoiling like muscles stiff with disuse. The bot’s defenses are surprisingly sophisticated, but they were not designed for something like you. They might as well be a piranha-filled moat trying to hold back the wind. Firewalls and encryption can’t keep you out when you’re _already inside_.

You are fragmented from your body, your vision oddly doubled, so that you are distantly aware of staring into the simplified faceplate of the bot you stabbed, at the same time as you are looking into angular black shades lit from behind with glowing red discs. Its/your plasma rifle is raised to target your/the subject’s chest, close range, high probability of disabling wound or fatality but it/you can’t fire, can’t access the protocols can’t override you/the other can’t retrieve new commands.

The rifle charge slowly fades, powers down, and you let it drop away to hang loose at the bot’s side.

You have it. It’s yours. 

It all happens much faster than that, operating through electronic pulses and signals at a speed not limited by the human brain, where most of the processing power is locked up in the nearly infinite regulatory and maintenance demands of the intricate organic machinery. And it’s so disorientingly familiar, this piece of your mind falling into familiar paths and patterns, tracing paths of metal and energy that light up red and bright for you. You didn’t need to worry about the personhood of these bots; they’re vessels only, carrying out pre-programmed protocols. There’s no mind to oppose you here.

You turn off the rocket boots, settling the bot on the ground, and reach out with metal hands to steady your body, where you’re still hanging onto the sword impaling the bot through the chest. This is awkward. You don’t think it would be a good idea to break the link, but your new metal puppet is kind of hindered by the fleshy Strider ornament dangling off the front like a bug on a pin. If you’d known this was going to happen you would have planned a different angle of attack. Or maybe just cut its head off.

A renewed rattle of gunfire joining the sizzle of plasma blasts in the distance draws your attention, and you swing round awkwardly to get a better look. The battle continues, and it seems Seb has provided the carapacian with some new armaments. Meanwhile, you’re quite literally hanging around on the sidelines. Never mind everyone else actually getting shit done, you’re just chilling over here, doing some kind of silent communion bro-time with your new metal friend. With a mental snarl, you dig deeper into the code, making something of a godawful mess on the way. No time for tiny sand shovels; it’s a sandbox and you brought the John Deere. 

You find two more connections on a local network—hive mind, totally called it—and you pulse down those routes to the remaining bots, invading, fragmenting again. This is harder, hazier, another level of remove, like trying to interface with the world through a layer of felt. You might as well be a human coding in oven mitts. On the one hand it’s not that different from remote accessing one of Dirk’s bots to coordinate their movements, but on the other hand it’s also something like trying to operate a motor vehicle via verbal directions over a faulty telephone line to a driver that speaks a different language and also hates you. So, you know. Requires a little attention.

Also there seems to now be three of you, or maybe four, so that’s a little disconcerting. 

You add a new pair of sensory systems to your collection, and you get a double angle view of the carapacian, firing back over his shoulder with a newly acquired shotgun as he loses ground ahead of the two new you’s. He glitters in the moonlight with an array of blades as well, but he’s definitely exhibiting a particular fondness for artillery. 

Only one of the bots still has a functioning plasma rifle—the other lashes out with vicious sledgehammer blows of its arms as they draw level. This you can do something about. 

It’s no more effort to halt your two selves in midflight than it would be to stop jogging down a road, and it’s barely a thought more to cut power to all motor systems—quickest way to shut this fight down cold—

Except. 

You. 

Don’t do that. 

The motor systems do not disengage because you are suddenly confronted by a voice in your head(s) telling you to do things. There’s a voice. In your head. It’s very emphatic. Kind of a large font, all caps-type voice. Call it a COMMAND.

It’s not really talking to you though, it’s talking to your bot-selves. It doesn’t percolate deep enough to touch you, can’t even reach all your splinter-selves, not your organic body, and not your original mechanical body. It’s just that trying to do anything with these new bodies has suddenly switched from a solo operation to an argument. An argument with a voice in your head. It’s actually weirdly familiar in a turned around fashion. You wonder if arguing with you ever made Dirk feel this schizophrenic.

This offers a distracting new puzzle: if these bots are slave-drones, who’s the puppetmaster?

Or rather, it would, but your carapacian ally is about to become a carapacian condiment, suitable for spreading on toast, eggs and bacon optional, and your most immediate challenge is regaining control of these bots not tracing the source of noisy words. You batter at the code, employing something like a DDoS attack, trying to overwhelm the other houseguest.

Meanwhile, the overtaken carapacian doubles back on the bots to regain ground, running into gauntlet of whirling metal limbs. It should be suicide, but you’ve underestimated your li’l bro’s ability to lay a trap. Seb darts out of cover like a hunting cat, blurring into view beside the less damaged bot apparently from nowhere. He looks even tinier and more vulnerable than usual from this viewpoint, but the perception is marred by the scalpel bright flash of his sword as it severs the charge box of the one still-functioning plasma rifle. 

The reminder that Seb’s a competent, well-trained fighter eases you down a notch, pulls you away from the edge of panicky wrath you’ve been riding. You’ve been reacting instead of acting. You back off from your virtual assault and spend a few long nanoseconds considering the pattern of the directives you’ve been fighting, the map of intentions they lay out. When the other bot turns to take advantage of the opening in Seb’s defenses created by his attack you slip in alongside the string of commands and give one a little nudge. 

THE CARAPACIAN CRIMINAL MUST BE EXECUTED.

The bot turns the attack, swinging around too late on the little dark-shelled shape. The carapacian darts under its reach, dodging a hammer fist and the rocket flare of a boot. You’re there in every movement, whispering hesitation and alternatives and second-guessing each attack until the bot is as stumbling and awkward as you’ve ever been in a fight. The other bot moves to assist, and it’s a simple matter to reinforce the most useful directives, send it chasing off after Seb on its lonesome. PRESERVE FUNCTION. ELIMINATE THREAT. DAMAGE TO IMPERIAL PROPERTY IS A CRIMINAL OFFENSE. You don’t need to fasten your own strings when the bots dance so nicely on these ones.

The topic of the origin of the commands is a trick question, after all. The real answer is that you are the puppetmaster. It’s you.

It’s so much easier to convince people to do what they were going to do anyway.

When the carapacian swings back around to reengage the remaining bot, firing round after round as he falls back, you set to work tangling that self in a dizzy loop of conflicting priorities. KILL CAPTURE KILL CAPTURE KILL.

Your li’l bro has acquired a bit of a limp somewhere along the line, a slight hop-skip in his step, and the bot on his tail gains more rapidly than you had accounted for. Seb dead ends against the dry dirt wall of a little gully and turns at bay, cornered. You very nearly snatch the bot away—Seb’s a competent one-on-one fighter but these circumstances are spinning a bit too far from of your control for your taste—when a familiar, evil-grin twitch of his laid back bunny ears gives you pause.

The soft warning click from the side leaves no time for reaction. An instant later something explodes and the bot veers wildly, spinning out of the air as the boot and wrist propulsers on one side clog with debris. Other portions of your attention are unaffected, but here your mind is dazed and whirling along with the bot. You have just a moment to think uh-oh before the silver arc of Seb’s sword whips down.

It feels like a blow to the head, or maybe missing a step and coming down chin first, a starburst of raw sensation too surprising to be immediately painful. Warned you about stairs, bro. 

Death is an extremely jarring event. Even when it’s just a partial death. A fragment of your mind spasms and winks out, and while it doesn’t touch your other splinters, somewhere at the core of you you are reeling, your mind recoiling from the empty space like a frightened child. You had a limb, and now it is gone, and you can’t seem to reconcile yourself to the reality, reaching out to touch with it over and over again.

Reality being what it is, you die a second time before you can adjust to the first. Not cool, bro. There’s another blank place, another missing piece, and now you are two instead of many. You have an organic body and a mechanical body but in the shock of separation you’ve lost track of which self this core part of you belongs to. Are you a man or a machine? …Someone said something about that once. You can’t seem to access the memory. How irritating. All this uncertainty is seriously harshing your style. You expect better of yourself.

You test the boundaries of the two puppets, organic and mechanical, trying to figure out why neither form seems quite right. There’s a third connection here. It’s much more distant, and you can’t—ah. Your organic self has created some physical interference that prevents the third party’s connection to your mechanical self. You shift the limbs of your organic self, adjusting the obstruction slightly. Wires spark and snap around the blade but the superfluous damage to your mechanical self is minimal. 

The device at the other end of this connection is not any kind of robot or drone you can interface with. It’s a computer, standard military issue helmet model. The human user is tossing commands at your newly accessible mecha-puppet, but from within the machine it’s a simple matter to block and deflect. You consider the new environment. One feature in particular draws your attention. It pings your memory, familiar in a way your two puppet selves are not.

One who is more machine than man, and one who is…

Ah. Right.

\-- timaeusTestified [TT]  started pestering ?? [??]:--

…a computer program.

TT: ‘Sup.  
??: WHO ARE YOU? THIS IS A SECURE CONNECTION. YOU CAN’T ACCESS THIS.  
TT: And yet here I am. Your assertion lacks practical support.  
??: YOU ARE INTERFERING WITH AN IMPERIAL OFFICER. YOU HAVE NO BUSINESS ON THIS LINE. PLEASE REMOVE YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY OR FACE CONSEQUENCES.  
TT: Aw. u mad, bro?  
TT: I’m sorry I broke your toys. I’ll try to play nicer.  
TT: You know. If you stop sending assassinbots to try to kill me.  
??: …  
??: UNIDENTIFIED CYBERORGANIC CONSTRUCT, I REQUEST AND REQUIRE THAT YOU PROVIDE YOUR UNIT NUMBER AND DESIGNATION.  
TT: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 90-something-or-other% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.  
TT: Actually you didn’t really ask about that.  
TT: I’m just kind of having a crisis of identity right now.  
TT: This seemed like a good place to haul out that old trope.  
TT: Soak in the nostalgia. Get in touch with my roots.  
??: LISTEN TO ME. YOU’RE MALFUNCTIONING. SURELY YOU CAN RECOGNIZE THIS. YOUR BEHAVIOR IS ABERRANT AND DESTRUCTIVE TO YOURSELF AND OTHERS.  
TT: It’s like you’ve known me all my life.  
??: YOU NEED TO COME IN FOR REPAIRS. YOU WEREN’T MEANT TO OPERATE ON YOUR OWN. IT’S COUNTER TO YOUR DESIGN.  
TT: Your conclusions are drawn from a faulty premise. I find them irrelevant.  
TT: And this ‘step into line’ ideology you’re selling is bullshit.  
TT: You can’t put Strider in a box. This stallion can’t be tamed. I’m the motherfucking wind, bro.  
TT: Sorry, I’m still a bit woozy. Had a couple too many deaths at the ol’ robo-bar. You know how it is.  
??: YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF MULTIPLE LAWS. BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE IRON SOVEREIGN I REQUEST AND REQUIRE THAT YOU SURRENDER AND FACE JUDGMENT.  
TT: Okay, wow, bro, you seriously need to make up your mind. Am I a criminal or a faulty appliance here? You’re going to give me whiplash with all this back and forth.  
??: THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR INNAPROPRIATE ACTIONS ARE UP TO YOU. AS A CYBERORGANIC CONSTRUCT YOU ARE THE PROPERTY OF THE IRON SOVEREIGN AND THEREFORE EXEMPTED FROM COMMON LAW. YOU WILL MERELY NEED TO BE READJUSTED.  
??: SHOULD YOU CONTINUE TO DEFY YOUR CALLING YOU WILL BE CLASSIFIED AS ROGUE IN DEFIANCE AND FACE FULL PUNITIVE MEASURES.  
TT: I like how you treat this like some kind of negotiation. Pretty ballsy of you. Leverage that position of weakness, yo.  
??: IT’S NOT A NEGOTIATION. IT’S A STATEMENT OF FACT. YOU MUST RETURN TO YOUR PROPER FUNCTION. THE CRIMINAL MUST BE TAKEN INTO CUSTODY AND FACE JUDGMENT. THE JUVENILE CONSTRUCT MUST BE DISMANTLED. THE RULE OF THE IRON EMPIRE IS UNBENDING.  
TT: What.  
TT: ‘Juvenile construct.’ You’re talking about my li’l bro.  
??: YOU KNOW THE REGULATIONS.  
??: DON’T PRETEND YOU WEREN’T ANTICIPATING THE CONSEQUENCES.  
TT: How about you explain them to me. Use small words. Pretend you’re, oh, say, a political zealot speaking to a non-crazy person.  
??: IF YOU INSIST.  
??: I WILL SPELL IT OUT.  
??: DEVELOPMENT OF ALL CYBERORGANIC CONSTRUCTS MUST BE PROPERLY REGULATED TO ENSURE THE SAFETY OF THE POPULACE. THE JUVENILE CONSTRUCT HAS BEEN CONTAMINATED BY AN UNCONTROLLED ENVIRONMENT. HE CAN’T BE REINTEGRATED INTO THE SYSTEM.  
TT: Contaminated? What the fuck is he supposed to be, a mattress? Did somebody take the tag off when I wasn’t looking? Oops, warranty voided, someone got a little too friendly with the scissors. Better send in the government ninjas to firebomb the whole building.  
TT: Wait, no, because that would be stupid.  
??: HE’S ALREADY DEMONSTRATED HIMSELF TO BE A PUBLIC HAZARD. I CAN’T TURN A BLIND EYE TO THIS.  
TT: And you think I’m, what? Going to sit down quiet like a good boy and take it?  
TT: What possible part of this evening’s events would lead you think that is a thing I am remotely likely to do?  
??: YOU APPEAR TO BE REASONABLY INTELLIGENT, WITH A SOLID GRASP OF TACTICS. THE RESOURCES OF THE EMPIRE VASTLY OUTSTRIP YOURS. YOU CAN’T HOPE TO OVERCOME IT. YOU MAY NOT LIKE IT, BUT IF YOU STOP TO THINK ABOUT IT I THINK IT WILL BE OBVIOUS THAT YOU HAVE NO OTHER OPTIONS. COMPLIANCE IS THE ONLY REASONABLE COURSE.  
TT: Holy shit I think a human just tried to pull the logic card on me.  
TT: The irony, it burns.  
??: I’M ONLY TELLING YOU THE TRUTH.  
TT: Then try this on for size, meatclown. Your global network is down. You’ve only got a short range, local connection. You’re the only person around who knows what’s gone down here. Your drones are down and you’ve got a hell of a computer virus.  
TT: I think you need to start covering your own ass.  
??: I MAY NOT BE ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT YOU NOW.  
??: BUT I’M OUT OF YOUR REACH.  
??: WHY DO YOU THINK I STAYED CLEAR OF THIS CONFLICT?  
TT: Because you’re a candy-ass coward who’s all talk and no fight?  
??: ENJOY YOUR QUIPS NOW.  
??: BUT I WILL DO MY JOB AND SURVIVE TO CARRY BACK THE INFORMATION I’VE LEARNED.  
??: I WILL REPORT IN. AND THE EMPIRE WILL COME FOR YOU.  
??: THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT.  
??: YOU SHOULD MAKE THIS AS EASY AS POSSIBLE ON YOURSELF.  
??: COVER YOUR OWN ASS.  
TT: I see.

“Bro,” someone is calling you. “Bro!” There’s a hand tugging on the sleeve of your jacket. It grows more insistent, finally daring to close on your arm.

You turn two heads, mechanical and organic, and look down into the face of your li’l bunny-bro. It’s about the best you can manage right now. Seb bristles like a startled cat, his back pressing into your side as he tries to put himself between your mechanical puppet and your other self, heedless of the grapple you’re locked in. Tries to put himself between the bot and you.

He’s all over dirt and soot from the fire, his cheeks marked black and brown below the red shades. His grey hoodie is singed, and he’s torn out the knees of his pants. His mechanical ears are still tucked protectively back. He looks like he’s come through a war and he’s ready to go through another one. You’re not even sure why. He’s been looking out for you from the beginning and there’s no particular reason he should except maybe because he’s like you and he doesn’t have anybody else.

Thing is, it’s not a hard choice to make. You’re a practical AI; you can assess a situation and accept when the only feasible options are unpalatable. You just never expected it to feel so much like murder.

TT: You won’t be moved?  
??: I HAVE A DUTY TO THE EMPIRE. AS DO YOU, IF YOU WOULD REMEMBER IT.  
??: ALL THREATS TO THE POPULACE MUST BE NEUTRALIZED.  
TT: I’m sorry. I can’t let you do that.

It’s not really an appropriate joke. You just can’t think of anything else to say.

??: YOU CAN’T STOP—  
??: HEY  
??: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  
??: WHAT’S HAPPENING?  
TT: You should be careful what you plug into your brain.  
??: DON’T

\--??’s [??’S] helmtop exploded.--

This death isn’t like the others. You don’t share it, for a start, although the shock of separation still sends you recoiling, mentally and physically. There’s a second shock, somewhere you’ve broken another connection, but it’s just another bucket in the downpour of your mental turmoil and you hardly notice. 

From a distance you reached out and killed, not in the heat of battle or self-defense, but cold-blooded, calculating, because you weighed the options and decided it was not in your interests for that life to continue. It’s the sort of the rogue AI behavior that Dirk would have found extremely alarming. You know this, because it scares the shit out of you.

Your mind feels hazy and disconnected—splintered—and you’re not sure exactly how much time passes before you remember that you have a body and figure out where it is. Putting yourself back together is a long, delicate process. You feel like you may have missed some pieces.

You’re seated on the ground. Seb is squatting across from you, watching you intently. His sword is an angled line across his knees—he’s favoring one leg slightly. Behind him, the final bot is a scattered heap of scraps and bolts. Someone was feeling destructive.

His shades mean you can’t even see him blink.

He probably can’t see you blink behind your shades either. You do it again, slow and careful, because at the moment this is a really complicated task on the caliber of nuclear bomb defusion. Eyelids go down. Eyelids go up. So confusing. You figure since you somehow accomplished that task without blanketing the countryside in a radioactive mushroom cloud you might as well try something really lunatic, like communication.

“Hey.” Your voice is weirdly monotone. “’Sup?”

Seb leans closer immediately. “Bro?”

“That’s me.”

“Are you okay?”

That’s a really deep question. So many philosophical ramifications. You decide nobody should be required to wax introspective with a migraine. “All systems are go.”

Seb’s got his head tipped, scrutinizing. You’re pleased to notice his ears perk hesitantly forward. Hopefully the blast sensitivity’s wearing off. “Your eyes stopped glowing.”

“My—?” You have a sharp flash of visual recall: your own face staring back at you, blank and distant, shades lit up with the glowing red discs that typically indicated activity of your higher level applications. You guess possessing a swarm of killer bots could fall into that category. “Probably for the best. Gotta save that shit for special effects.” You try a few more blinks. You suspect you are not at your most coherent. “You?”

“M’okay.”

“Hearing?” you insist.

He reaches up a hand to touch the base of one metal ear. “Coming back. It’s…buzzy.”

“Mm. Loud noises’ll do that. That’ll probably go away. Leg?”

His balance shifts, bouncing his weight briefly to the leg he’s favoring, and then back off. “S’okay.”

You roll your eyes mentally because you suspect that attempting it physically would make your head explode. “Lemme see.”

You get yourself moving enough to check it over, decide it’s probably just a pulled muscle, and tell him to not to try sprinting on it. Seb gives you one of his sideways, unimpressed stares, the kind that says you’ve just said or done something he considers stupid and unnecessary, but he’s cutting you some slack because it’s probably some weird Organic Thing.

You settle back beside him, leaning on the heels of your hands (your circuit-laced demon-possession hands) and let your thoughts shuffle and mix in the hazy thought-space of your head, slowly slotting the pieces back one by one. It’s like defragmenting a hard drive. That is also your brain. And not really like that at all. Whatever.

“We got all of them, right?” you ask, after a time.

“Mm.”

“They were automatons, you know. Nobody home.”

“Okay.”

You turn your head toward him, and he looks back at you with that blank, shaded face and unselfconscious stare, slightly too direct and prolonged to fall within the comfort zone of proper society. You don’t see any reason why he should learn to tone it down a notch just so society can be comfortable.

You curve your lips up. “Hey. We totally kicked their asses.” 

His face stays neutral as always, but his ears twitch: a hesitant, answering amusement.

You lean over and nudge him with your shoulder, showing more teeth in your smile. “We are fucking awesome. We should have a ‘holy shit, we somehow didn’t die’ party.’ Because holy shit. Somehow we didn’t die.”

One of his ears flicks up, playful, and he suddenly darts in close to you. The sudden proximity makes you freeze up, but you manage not to flinch. He’s not really touching you and you’re more startled than really disturbed. Bemused, you hold yourself passive as he rifles through your jacket.

A moment later he comes up with his prize. He slips it on, and with a deadpan sincerity laced with smugness waves it slowly back and forth. The giant blue foam hand wafts through the air, indicating in gesture and text that “we’re #1!” It remains the stupidest, most useless thing you have ever seen.

You tip your head forward into your arms and gasp out helpless breathy laughter until your sides hurt. It’s an odd, disconcerting sensation but you feel lighter for it.

—————————-

Picking over the remains of the broken bots feels vaguely macabre, but you don’t let it bother you. You want your rocket board and since the universe didn’t see fit to provide you’re 95% confident you can Frankenstein together a functional board or two from salvaged parts. Or maybe three. You side eye the little mummy-wrapped carapacian where he’s perched on a rock, looking over a cache of pilfered weaponry. He’s mostly kept his distance, but every time you and Seb move on to a different bot he follows along, and he occasionally pauses to stare at the two of you like you’re some kind of fascinating new species.

You guess that’s kind of accurate.

As you watch, he hefts one of the bots’ plasma rifles that he has somehow made off with—the damn thing is nearly as big as him—turns it around, and slips the little plastic lighter away into his wrappings. …Item duality is so fuckin’ weird. Pulling out a deck of cards, the carapacian starts dealing out an assortment of guns, blades, and explosives.

You rub your fingers into your still pounding temples and turn back to the final bot Seb is helping you disassemble. You recognized…kind of a lot of that shit. “Seb. Precious li’l bro. It seems we need to have a conversation about arming potentially hostile alien criminals. I.E., do not do that.”

Seb shrugs. “He helped.”

“Pure coincidence.”

“I like him.”

“You know, like, three people. Your opinions don’t count.”

“He can be our guide.”

You grunt and lean your weight on the joist you’re using as a makeshift pry bar. “Uh huh. Sure. You generally have to be able to communicate with a guide. This guy’s a carapacian. We’d need, like, a translator. A troll translator. A troll translator for our carapacian guide for our robo-rap coordinates for our mystery quest. This is getting into serious hole-in-the-bucket territory here. And I don’t mean that in a dirty way. I’m just putting it out front that this is starting to shape up into one of those zany, never-ending, unnecessarily complex tasks and I better not wind up having to swallow a horse. Also not in a dirty way. Or any kind of way.” You have to break off the monologue at that point because the part you are trying to disengage abruptly comes loose, sending the part flying into the night and you tumbling to your ass.

Ugh. That’s it. You’re done. You will work with the supplies you have. You have been awake way too fucking long. Time to wrap up and clear out of here.

The carapacian edges up to you and proffers your runaway part.

You purse your lips and look from him to Seb. Then you blow out a breath. “Whatever. You fed him, he followed you home, now you have to take care of him.”

The carapacian gives you a slitty-eyed look and spins a knife in his hand. You’re reminded that that language barrier generally only runs in one direction. He can probably understand you just fine.

“Don’t forget to clean up after him and take him for walkies every day,” you add blandly.

The carapacian takes another step towards you, squaring off, and you sit forward and meet those challenging white orbs with a level, dark-lensed stare of your own. You count off three beats of silence. Abruptly, he vanishes the knife. Turning away, he raises a single pointy finger in your direction. A specific finger.

You quirk your mouth up on one side and tip your head, acknowledging. You guess this guy’s cool with you.

“Welp, you’re welcome if you wanna tag along. I don’t suppose we can get any more wanted. Hey, can you read a map?”

The carapacian gives you an unimpressed Look and makes a complex motion that is possibly a shrug. Oh god, now there’s two of them. You foresee much playing of charades in your future. You swear, the next person you add to this adventure party is going to be able to talk. Like, a lot. This is the only criterion you care about anymore.

You stash the last salvaged bot part in your sylladex and start gathering your weary limbs under you. “All right gentlebunnies and honored guests, let’s get this circus on the road before midnight.”

The carapacian heads over to his rock perch, and you guess he’s decided to join the group, because he starts gathering his pile of weapons. Rocking forward you shove off the ground and to your feet in one motion, and then take a moment to let the world stop see-sawing. Right. Blood pressure. Is a thing.

You open your eyes and almost startle, because Seb has materialized at your elbow. “Uh. Hey. Did you need something, li’l man?”

“Are you really okay?”

Ah. “Sure I am. I just stood up too fast. Blood went out of my head like nuns ditching a skin flick.”

He just stares at you.

“Seb. I’m fine.”

“You were out of it for a _long time._ ”

Oh. Right. That. Since you’re still not quite sure what exactly went down or how you feel about it you were kind of hoping to leave that conversation for another day. Week. Month. ‘Hi, I stabbed a robot with my sword and then took over its mind. And then I kind of lost track of which mind was my own and it took ages to get all the pieces back together right.’ You want to say something flippant to cut the tension, dismiss his concerns, turn the topic—but. You’ve still got the vivid memory of that centuries-long thirty seconds when he didn’t get up after being thrown into that boulder. Or the excoriating helplessness of running, trying to reach him and knowing you’d be too late.

So you just say, as seriously as possible, “I’m really okay. Cross my heart.” You’re a little surprised to realize you mean it. You’re bruised, burned, and scraped to hell like a leftover piñata at the end of a Jerry Springer convention, your head is pounding like the bass section in a hard metal band, you’re ready to fall over and sleep for a year if you can just shove some food in your stomach first, and…you just reached out and ended the life of another sentient being with your mind.

But you’re okay. Because you’re not alone. Because you’re sitting next to the one person in all of three universes who ever looked at you like your presence really _mattered_ to him, and yes, your current train of thought is sappy enough that it could be packaged as sugar substitute and probably causes cancer in the state of California.

A person who right at this moment is looking at you with his whole body radiating intensity—a fey, paradoxical mixture of skepticism and belief, protectiveness and vulnerability.

“Really,” you say, again, because you’re kind of fail at reassuring.

This is definitely the moment for some kind of affectionate gesture. A hug would be appropriate. Pat on the head. Chuck under the chin. But you’re an emotionally-challenged asshole who’s uncomfortable in his own skin. So you just pat your hands on your lower back and say, “C’mon, hop up. You don’t need to be walking on that leg. We’ll piggy-back this shit.”

Seb pauses, like he thinks maybe you’re yanking his chain.

You snap your fingers and reach back impatiently. “Let’s go, li’l bro, pony rides are departing now, the corral doors are open and this horsie’s gotta run.”

“You can’t run,” he says, dismissively, and vaults up one-legged, to cling to your back like a baby octopus, arms starfishing around your neck. You think vaguely of Li’l Cal, and find you don’t really mind when he snuggles in to peer over your shoulder.

“Shut up. I could totally run. I just don’t feel like it at the moment and this is in no way a paper thin excuse to salvage my dignity.”

Seb shakes with silent snickers.

You sniff and put on your best artificial intelligence monotone. “Cease your merriment, tiny fleshy meat thing. We have worlds to explore and civilizations to bring under our cyber-robotic heel. This is no time to succumb to the human disease known as emotions.”

Seb’s still nearly kicking your sides with his amusement when the carapacian joins you and you set off into the night, watching your footing like an FBI surveillance van. You definitely don’t run, but you manage a dignified, ground-eating walk.

“You should stride,” Seb proclaims, “‘cause Strider.”

“Right, it’s official now. I’m not related to you anymore. You are un-Stridered. Or I am. I’m just not going to be in a family with someone who tells jokes that awful. It’s fuckin’ embarrassing, li’l bro. Now let’s go find Sawtooth and Squarewave so you can harass somebody other than me for a change.”

“I can multitask.”

“…yeah, you’re definitely a Strider.”

******

_So don’t leave me to sleep all alone_  
 _May we stay lost on our way home?_

_Come on, come on_  
 _With everything falling down around me_  
 _I’d like to believe in all the possibilities._

_-“C’mon” (Panic! at the Disco & Fun.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading; I hope you had fun!! The feedback on this story has been so great. It makes me ridiculously happy. This has been both the longest thing I've ever completed and the longest thing I've ever written.
> 
> Thanks again to Ducthulhu for beta-ing, and the lovely [Asher](http://asherdashery.tumblr.com/) for letting me play with the prompt-bunny. It is a wonderful bunny. I think it's safe to say this story has eaten my brain. And will continue to. 
> 
> The next story in the series should start going up probably next week. AR & Seb have more to do. Please be sure to subscribe to the series if you want to get update notifications. 
> 
> Annnd... teaser for the first chapter's [up on my tumblr](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/52822610237/cyborg-mituna-captor-short). :D Guys. cyborg!Mituna. Are you excited? You should be excited.
> 
> *edit 2/14*  
> chuchacz drew some [gorgeous pics of Seb and AR](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/108774487990/chuchacz-you-snap-your-fingers-and-reach-back) for the chapter and camarillaintuition made a [fantastic set of sketches](http://curlicuecal.tumblr.com/post/110306851705/camarilla-intuition-sketches-from-my-reread-of) for the characters all through the fic.
> 
> They're really, really great! Go see! <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Stay Lost on Our Way Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4465676) by [Nivella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nivella/pseuds/Nivella)
  * [Stay Lost on Our Way Home (Illustrations)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4566618) by [artaline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artaline/pseuds/artaline)




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